I make a promise:
two poems every day.
One for eating, the words
from the pages of a book
like the pomegranate fruit:
fire inside a leathery skin.
And one for pouring out
from the parched place in me:
(that waits for perfect sentence, the witty one,
the just-so observation, the clean narration,
but needs the messiness of each stained seed, just as it is)
words cupped in the bowl of the poem; a mouthful of red juice.