Some days I want my poems to come complete,
to pull them whole and oval from my mouth,
like eggs, their plaster-of-paris shells delicately
enclosing a life within.
The o in opening, in ovum, in blood.
The o in rimon, which is Hebrew
for pomegranate and for hand grenade.
Seeds that develop in a sac, a pomegranate
deep inside me, red roe, spore to carry
a new potency, climb my insides like a vine.
Pine cones whose kernels are only released in heat:
fire that rises, fills, explodes, an orange force
I understand. Sometimes there is just this:
the whole open sky, the orange leavings
of the day, blue deepening to the place
where stars start their life in darkness.
Tonight can be a fist full of pills or a dream
held in an empty husk, can be a man
who uncovers himself, lays his manhood
in my palm. Tonight can be a broken shell.
Tonight can be a poem.
Listen to this poem: