Postcard from Exile

Whether it was an apple or a pomegranate
hardly matters any more. The point
is that she ate it, knowing. The point is that I told her to
and she listened. The point is that she listened. And then
I followed her here where she sleeps on unwashed sheets
and I ask her every day Do you regret it yet? And
every day she says No. And every night I ask
Would you do it again? And every night she bites
down on the knife she used to core that fruit,
lets it carve a red river up her jaw, and you can see
she’s always smiling now. I’d do it again, yes. And now
I hope you read this and know this is paradise. I hope
you read this and you wish you were here.