By Kira Christensen
the poets write much
about pomegranates, peeling love to pieces
with deft hands, tearing open
white rinds of red berries
to devour the delicious inside.
but i don’t starve for you
like pomegranates, clawing
for tiny bites of bittersweet;
scouring fields like birds scavenging
after every last bit
of spare grain. no,
i have you like a mid-harvest feast,
stuffed full and steady,
knowing always
there’ll be more,
knowing always
i’ll be full.
