Grenade

Little garnet thrown from the hand,
little heart grown on a sleeve,
like a grain of the pomegranate,
you've got a grip, you're a loaded word
about to blow. Persephone

would tell us that the pomegranate
is only an apple livid with seeds,
then, how dark down there (She and Eve
compared their fieldnotes: genus, species
a botany of botched affairs).

In dreams, seeing this flesh fruit
ranges in meaning the way red ranges
from live girls to long life. But there's no telling
what you mean, dear grenade, no easy denotation,
so the dreamer's on her own

as the besieger—a handsome devil—mounts
the breach, and you're in her hands now.
No matter what she chooses to do,
all you'll do is tell (a thousand tiny bells
toll) and tell (a thousand ruby cells

explode) and tell. All there is
is telling, and then
is told.

Copyright © 2005 Rebecca Hoogs All rights reserved
from The Laurel Review

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