The grocery store doesn't sell pomegranates anymore.
I go looking through the strawberries and the blueberries,
touch the blackberries to see if they really do stain but find
nothing. No pomegranates, not even the seeds. I wonder
if they know about the breakfast you set out two days ago
that no one touched and the time you bit into a rotten pear
just to put your mouth where someone else's had been.
I wonder if they know that you still call your new wife by all
of my mom's old nicknames, and I wonder if you know that
you and I are really both just star particles, scattered across
time and space, and reconfigured into some semblance of
order. Humans like order, daddy, I'm sure you know that. Fruit,
vegetables, meat, herbivore, omnivore, carnivore, they no
longer sell pomegranates at the grocery store. When
archeologists have recovered all of the bones from a site,
they leave it. Even the dead must eventually go silent.
Remember during the summer, when we'd sit on the deck
and crack open pomegranates like fractured skulls, just to see
if they really did bleed. You'd only stain your two front teeth,
but I always had the magenta juice rouged across my mouth
and smudged into my cheeks. What I'm trying to say, is that
the grocery store no longer sells pomegranates, but I've still
got the burgundy stains under my fingernails, and even the
small part of my heart that still wields a pick ax is getting
tired of all of the repetitive motion. Daddy, herbivore, omnivore,
carnivore, they no longer sell pomegranates at the grocery store.