The young poets are writing about pomegranates as anatomy instead of metaphor again, ‘tis the season.

Untouched hands write of being peeled like oranges, or plucked like figs.

Of how their breath smells of lavender and their lovers eyes are made of precious stones.

The sweetness of cozy lives just begun.

Meanwhile,

I scoop shells from starchy waters, and reminisce about the night I sunk my teeth into his flesh for our comfort.