The moon is sacral tonight, wide orange.
My legs, pruners on a loose hinge,
But litter of language jams the throat full
Of ideas but no action—all pollution.
My native tongue is begging for water.
There are only pomegranates to feed her.
Only one word at a time, can’t speak phrases.
One seed at a time, the moon is impatient.
Slice the pomegranate—half moon her,
Make the seeds rain in order to please her.
It feels like the first day of winter
And I am Demeter’s daughter.