Autumn Sky Poetry . . . Number 10 . . .


     by Farren Stanley

When the knife split back the pomegranate's

dull leather and perfect

intact compartments, the practical cloistered

cells of honeybees, nests for those

hexagonal jewels--

O florid astonishment! After a week-long

confinement on the filthy counter,

puff of blue foodsmoke,

the surge of horror:

Grief! Squandered abundance!

It beckoned from behind the toaster,

Split this open and see

what you've left to spoil—

O, love song for low globe of sex fruit,

for lovers reunited in the barest nights of the year!

An early mouthful, filched before

supper was off the stove because of

the accidental triumph of fruit

left to ripen, not rot,

and its royal taste:

the expected sweetness, the allusion to

tannin that wilts into chalk, a sensate contralto

dying on the tongue all black

smoke and crimson scarves.

Later, making slow deliberate work of the

fruit, I learn things.

Some people, mouths a vacuum

to strip sweet from seed,

will swallow the pith's bulk.

Fingers drawn through

a sticky mound on the collection plate

I think of their ballast,

a quarry in the belly.

Farren Stanley has a BA from the College of Santa Fe and is attending the Tin House Summer Writer's Workshop in July.

© 2008 Farren Stanley