12

She is wine poured
to fill the muse’s mold, taste
of temptation, barren cups
now swollen to waxing moons,
the kind artists can’t help
but gaze at, her eyes
closed tight, lips panting
a birthday wish—soon, dear God,
let it be soon—fist squeezing
a half-eaten pomegranate on her thigh,
dripping crimson secrets.

17

She is a ribbed cavern,
all angles, hungry blades
unsheathed to carve form
to phantom, a mere trick
of light not worth
the sculptor’s notice, no one’s
prey, her eyes a craving, hollow
as prayer in a godless world,
hand empty as the fruit
drops to the floor—unbitten
and bruised.

33

She is the current
flecked with stone, vines
scaling rusted mirrors, a bloom
sun-slaked and blood-rimmed,
both clay and callous flushed
with tender force, her eyes
fixed on mine—beheld
and beholding—arms lifted
above her head, weighed
with pomegranate—ripe and hers
for the blessing.