I’ve had pomegranates twice in my 17 years.
Each time, I was awed at how
something with such a mysterious foreign air
could hold so many intricate bursts of joy.
All I’ve got is the shell:
Mysterious to some,
foreign to most—
not alluring enough to be
cracked.
One day, I’d like
to be someone's
pomegranate.
I sit with a smile on my lips, my brother—Abu—
beside me as the kettle begins to sing.
Moomins fill the screen, hattifatteners too.
The TV light painting over my blue.
Ma had lots of heels she’d promised to give me.
Stilettos, kitten heels, and a daring red.
Scuffed and worn,
yet donned like designer.
Words slip through my fingertips
every so often.
Experiences in foreign countries,
meeting new people, and even falling in love—
all boiled into delusion.
Comments
I adore the language of this poem. It is so relatable!
Thank you so much!! (^U^)
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