to temper the pomegranate red inside us
by Erin Noehre
fingers
trace. follow slips round
the tan husk & shell to touch, in a sense
a body
as it is. body
a world inside you
i cannot see
. . .
you cloud with wrist
underside
reaction.
wild and clean. a world inside
i damage to see.
the lake which teems
. . .
fear a realming double. fear of process.
progress. promise
it won’t always
be like this.
. . .
stormy concrete
on, against.
with light absent
feed me unguided.
promise
i’ll love you
for what i won’t
love in myself.
. . .
we were winded, gasping the worn shoot
of our mothers.
and this
my fear. my red with open.
eye my regimented
mind
with care
don’t autopsy me yet
. . .
wanting you singed me open.
every nerve of skin electric. un-
godded & molecular until i no longer knew
what i was lucky for.
. . .
all i was lucky for:
the miracle medical peel
of your laugh
and mine.
how we both washed
hands in all that
water.
of your laugh
and mine.
how we both washed
hands in all that
water.
all i could have missed:
. . .
we put our hands (homes) in
each other. such building i’ve learned
not so easily undone
. . .
and of course we did
and didn’t remember. how it felt
rubbing the ripe worlds of our hips together
angels falling
with fruit
from our skin