Pomegranate
Inside the put together
earth tones
that she maintains
slim and flatter,
her body looks clawed apart
like the soft
egg carton interior
of a pomegranate
Dug into, picked at,
squeezed, plucked from,
scratched
Ovules coaxed
into bulbous seeds,
sown by
her hand,
alone
Now, she,
put upon,
is the bitter hostess
to the
many
fleshy
crimson
kernels
With their hard healed middles
that, scattered across her,
do not themselves uproot,
they’ve made her their
permanent home
by invitation
Regrettably,
Hers truly
While My Grandfather Lay Dying
While my grandfather lay dying,
and yet,
not entirely so,
my grandmother, uncles, and the lot
pulled up
their vinyl upholstered armchairs
Small talking over him,
chortling around him,
making funeral arrangements
while my grandfather lay dying,
and yet,
not entirely so
With his longtime smoker breathlessness,
he was alert still, hearing and seeing
Yet my grandmother said
he’d gone deaf and blind
She said
he didn’t know where he was
But there he was
Still there he was
in his hospital bed,
half naked
Reeking of his old body’s unburdened foul,
trembling to the rhythm of the chill
It was the sodium in his system,
she said,
that caused his jerks and shivers
Never mind the high fever he had
that had
been trumpeted by the cold
For this she kept his blankets off,
counting the blips and purrs
courtesy of machinery crowding his space
before she finally authorized it gone
While my grandfather lay dying,
and yet,
not entirely so,
he grabbed at my hands
through the mesh of his gloves,
mumbling, “Mamma, Mamma…”
But she said it wasn’t him talking,
though he’d always said I looked
like his mother
Delusion! Death calling!
His head doesn’t help him
anymore now than the rest of him can!
While my grandfather lay dying,
the loathsome man he had been,
the man who beat his wife, outright,
a monster in life,
yet, in death,
not entirely so.
Steve
You are Steve.
And you go out of your way
to get in my way,
before you follow me into another aisle.
Okay. Hello, Steve.
I give you a good thirty minutes of my day.
Inside the CVS.
Then outside the CVS.
Then walking to Starbucks.
Then standing in line at Starbucks.
Then walking from Starbucks toward my car.
Then standing next to my car.
Then sitting in my car with you at my window,
never asking for my number.
You were Steve.
Sandra Bazzarelli is a singer/songwriter and writing instructor from Bergen County, New Jersey. She earned her B.A. in Literature and Writing from Columbia University, and her M.A. in English Education from NYU. Her work has previously appeared in Quarto, Instigatorzine, amphibi.us, Jersey Devil Press, & Mad Swirl.
