Which part of this crimson
honeycomb to eat? And how? Sun
highlights the knife’s blade, stripes the room
like prison bars.
I watch you scoop seeds, then copy;
savor sweet-tart bursts
as red pearls open.
Your food soothes me, your kind,
scratched-by-smoke-and-whiskey voice.
You must meditate, Sweet Pea.
Learn to let go. You’re just like me
at that age – beautiful and charming,
far too stubborn.
Not with you.
I read the Trungpa books
you lend me, obey
traffic signs, take vitamins.
Juice stains your lips.
Suddenly clumsy, I spill
water, lose my spoon in the shag
rug. I’ve had offers, always thought
I didn’t fancy women.
………..Your blond hair.
………………. ……………. Your breasts.
No one is that heterosexual.
Now I understand why my ex-boyfriend
sucked a chain of bruises down my neck
the first time I said yes.
Not passion, possession.
“Friend” is a pallid word.
Mentor, motherish though not kin,
I have no way
to mark you mine.
This jaundiced light’s
too bright. It slices
my hand as I dig in the devoured
pomegranate’s rind for hidden seeds.
Your husband
due back soon.
………..Your voice, your hair.
…………………………………… My hunger.