By Laura Mayron, ’16
I’d never been dissected before,
but that night I learned
how to peel myself apart
under a bruised and yellow moon.
I’d been too young to know
the exposed bellies of fruit
pits glistening raw
with juice and sorrow,
but I became a woman
with a pomegranate heart.
Set me out alone on the streets
as I bleed ruby seeds
and I’ll tell you what it’s like to be consumed.
It feels like thunder shaking the apple tree
like eyes waiting for your flesh to ripen,
open hungry stares dripping dark.
They pluck out the seeds of my heart
one by one
and under a false sun I sour
in profane communion.