Suck the juice from these arils

and spit out the seeds

from your stained lips

before running back up to kiss

your mother.

 

I’ll stay here with the seeds

and grow new trees,

waiting while your legs soak the sun.

There will be pomegranates

each winter when you return.

 

Each fruit, round as your breasts,

reminds me of you--

sour, desirable. But only black

fruit grows from my trees.

I’ll sit here spitting out black seeds.