Poem Twenty Two: Pomegranate

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The pomegranate seeds

were tart and delicious.

They were sweet

and soft.  

Red as a wound.

They seemed harmless.

I am crowned with heartbreak

or new beginnings.  

I come with the mud 

of seed or eulogy of soul.  

I have no regrets.

You who pose as 

lion-faced birds.

Come to me 

on the river of death.

Tell me your secrets.

I am the fertility 

of loss.

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