Arils like Rubies.


Pome – apple; Granum, granatus – seed

Grenade, grenadine, granule, grain.

With grain, we make bread. Brot. That which dies.

Ambrosia, unliving, undying, lingers in tales alone
(may we live forever on the lips and tongues of friends).

Mortality is a contract sealed with four small arils, red as blood.
Open a vein to grenadine, syrup of life.
Swallow rubies to wake the winter.
Calyx, these lips part to small deaths.
Tiny explosions,
we are dying every day.

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