theaudiencecollective:

Some years I’d open six or eight pomegranates
in one afternoon, standing in the kitchen
to separate pith from pulp, cradling a knife
in a penumbral palm, the tap of the blade
against the metal sink, the soft ghostly bodies
of rotten seeds floating in a bowl of stained water.
My parents named me for a woman who gave
milk and shelter hand in dissembled hand
with hammer and stake. Those who fell
asleep at her feet woke fixed and bloodied
at their temples. Sometimes I feel this
wish for someone there, just as a mirror
to capture my hands raising the weapon in profile,
to prove I am doing things and can be beautiful.

An excellent poem by my long time internet-friend Yael Levy.