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:

Broken Shell by Rachel Heimowitz

Photo fragility 1 by Barbara Krawcowicz used under Creative Commons License (BY-NC-ND-2.0)