Three pomegranates,
leather skin stretched rough-
out, tough as the back of the hand;
skull-hard, cheeks pulled in :
these pieces are gone way beyond
smiling. Past their summer
spell, ancient and chapped
as wisdom, three blotched
and weathered pomegranates hold
down the table's center-
piece. No one will ever
want to eat them. Your knife
couldn't carve them
to the enigmatic seed.
So far past ripe, each granite-
pomegranate is a clutch
of red stars, sweet to pucker
the tongue.