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A Poem: Trapped at home while trucks pave the road leading to my house making it impassible, I sit in my kitchen and eat a pomegranate and stew with what to do with the pain of rejection. 

I forgot to move my car.

Next to the vase
of wilted flowers
the pomegranate
fills both hands.

Outside trucks groan
to force a way on earth.

Meanwhile the world
races past roads.

I look for a new direction.

Everything and everyone
competes with the speed
of everything and everyone

while hurt feels like
it takes longer than ever

to pass.

It’s too late to slow down

to meet the wounds
with a kiss
but I must steady
the knife.

I’d like to be where I was
four lifetimes ago,
when this pomegranate
dropped into my hand

from the branch you shook.

It opened. I opened.
Then you were gone.

The taste was enough.

Any struggle was masked
by the pace of camels.

One slice now
and I can break open
this fruit

as full as the day

stain my hands,
sour my tongue

separate again and again
chamber from chamber
jewel from skin

break suck consume finish

then I’m kickin’ asphalt

the first red bud
to push through
the pavement.

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