We take a walk and go further
down another block
until we meet a pomegranate tree.

A quiet neighborhood.
You say.
But my thoughts run away to the kissing fish.

Last night I saw them for sale,
and the water was cold.

The weather is beautiful.
You continue.

I stop to watch pomegranates
fall to the ground.
Their skins crack, red seeds like tips of lit-up cigarettes.

My lips wet like the kissing fish.

–

Click here to read the contributor’s bio.