Not Pomegranate but Sugar Apple

There was never snow,
so I could not hide my rage
in a mantle of cold.

And when I bore daughters,
my body was green but scored,
as if ready for perforation.

Did I think I was the one
abducted? Of course
it makes so much

sense. It took years
for my head to feel unwound
from layers, for me to bring

myself to count each
dark seed I spat out
from the heart of milk-

sweet flesh. This fruit
I cradle in my hand, little
grenade that bursts so easy.

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