You cut a picture in the mirror:
a stranger,
a self against self
struggling
to remain donna erecta.
What stories will you share
with your grands,
stringing popcorn
on the tree,
brittle
reminders of the
once plump seeds,
now puffed-up
in memory's hot chambers?
.
Better these than
the grey ashes in the fireplace,
spent,
easily disposed,
cold with neglect.
Once, you tell,
you played with your food, with everything,
the taste
and juice
of each
pomegranate seed.
You
let it sit
perfectly
still
on each tooth
until
there was no more life in it, and you
spit it out without regrets.
Now, you don't dare put that seed in your mouth!
