Elizabeth Watson

there are pomegranates
in your cheeks. a saccharine
smile leaves the sap

in its place. your eyes
sparkle with the sugar.
there’s a tree

in the backyard of my
childhood home.

our stems grow
irreversibly intertwined
with that of others.

my abuela pulls fruits
from their roots.
she pours salt

over their sweet flesh
as she tears
them open. i bring

my lips to the severed,
salted slices.
the juices swirl in my mouth.

under your skin,
the hue of your
cheeks grows redder

as our bodies search
for the sensation(al); selfish
skin stirring skin.

i’ve grown tired
of belonging to others,

yet this doesn’t stop

the pomegranates
in your cheeks from

you tell me we deserve
to know who
we are.

to ourselves,
at the least,
we should be bared.

as reverie
engulfs me,
i wonder

how we can even come close.