We never had no sun
in that last rented room,
the blacked-out window
the two wooden chairs
and the same old freckled
pomegranate we kept
slicing across trying
not to make the seeds bleed
but they always did. And
the pomegranate would
heal again and we’d
look at it—the fatal fruit
in the center of the room—
scratch our heads
from opposite corners,
wonder how to open
this small burning sun,
this little clenched fist
without breaking.

Author: Andrea Jurjevic O’Rourke