Pomegranate

The crop, on the ledge of
a terrace where big boulders
cave under it, is heavy
with sap. The mountain
has never seen anything like it,
no shepherd tasted the variety,
no mother cooked such
flesh, made in the months
of summer by love for mouths
that crush and move the tongue
along the top of the palate,
licking and pressing the wine,
strong as Eden's orchard
whose blood we tasted, follicle
of kings, folly to the world,
flesh Lucy's children ate
when the world was fresh.