I extract the seeds one
by one, squeeze the ruby pearls between
my fingertips and am pleased
to see my hands and shirt stain, counter
I am pleased with this empty shell
but not my life. With bumpy wax melted and hardened
on candlesticks. With laundry hung.
With the ticking start
of the stove and soft whine
of the kettle.
I do not know how to wait, but I have learned how to notice.
The white marrow
of the pomegranate husk goes on
and on, infinite caverns enclosing infinite