The blue bowl we carefully picked
market, lies empty.
You always bought such beautiful pomegranates,
made sure they weren't bruised.
Your religion to choose the right selection
perfect shade of red, depth, firmness.
You'd place them softly into the bowl
to further ensure their preservation.
Eating was a holy experience.
The juice stained our fingers,
we'd laugh, lick the tart sap off.
It's difficult to go to market now,
I never know which line to enter,
always laugh at the wrong thing
when the clerk attempts small talk.
He sees through me,
knows I am ignorant of pomegranates,
I'll pick any old thing - red, magenta
I hide my heart stained fingers,
bruised red from stealing
pomegranate pieces of you.
Published in the 2006 Her Mark Datebook