The Pomegranate

She considers the pomegranate,
with its red, glistening seeds-
considers the potential
of tart, bursting juice.

She is hungry, yes —
and thirsty, in this strange
place, where the half-light
illuminates half-truths
and whole lives.

And he is watching,
his dark eyes
half-lidded and weary.

Her fingers stroke the
firm red skin, as she
ponders. Each seed
is a word, waiting.

One seed-Quickening
Two-Dissolving
Three-Releasing
Four-Returning
Five-Ripening
Six, and she is sated.

She licks her lips,
throws the rest of the fruit
to the three-headed dog.
Yawns.
Stretches.
Opens her eyes
for the first time again
and sees.

His eyes, gleaming.
And his hands —
an anchor mooring
in the great sea.

 

[Shoshana Edelberg is a journalist, poet and musician based in Atlanta, Georgia. She lives in a witch’s cottage on a creek, where she skries Runes, studies raptors and wolves, and longs for Scandinavia. She’s currently working on a series of poems about the stages of alchemical transformation, and trying to conquer the Finnish language.]

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