Sarah Fawn Montgomery: “Pomegranate”
POMEGRANATE
Halve a heart, pulp
bright behind brittle
rind, wax and pith
caught in your throat
like regret or longing
to leave a lonely
town where nothing grows,
empty vines noosing
the lines where farmers hang hope
and chardonnay, stuffed men
though crows know
not to fall for false
flesh like your mother
and her many lovers,
glassy-eyed and soaring
high like birds of prey,
casting shadows circling
over your heart, size
of a clenched fist or fruit
you believe hollow as bird
bones, crack on a table
like mother’s hand
during an argument over water
and wine, the town dry
from vineyards greedy
as tourists and her thirst,
seeds spilling like blood
across the table, crushed
easily between your teeth,
a bursting bright reminder
to stain your absent smile.
Sarah Fawn Montgomery is the author of Halfway from Home (Split/Lip Press), Quite Mad: An American Pharma Memoir (The Ohio State University Press) and three poetry chapbooks. She is an Assistant Professor at Bridgewater State University.