That pomegranate lives the same life,
yearns for the same light.
Its pointed scarlet blossom
is an open mouth, “Ah,”
gathering every ray of light.

This fall, in my red
gums, pain burned belatedly,
and the soft bones of love that I couldn’t accept
became sunlight stuck in the distance.

Though I have reached the age to stop believing in love
I still yearn for light, I call out to somebody, “Ah.”