Pomegranate Lightbulb

They call it mitz rimonim (מיץ רמונים) and
it takes more than two of us to screw it
in, I tell you, nothing is sweeter, fresh
squeezed on a desert day by the sea,
the vendor doesn’t like me speaking his
language because I don’t do it well, he
knows mine and says “six shekel” I turn
it over gladly, the gift feels stolen at that
price, the parchment of my lips seeking
tart, perfected, lifeblood, I tell you, there
is nothing that softens the sunlight more
– as a spare seed catches in my teeth,
promising me that – yes, light does grow
on trees, tell me, do you brighten at the
touch of angels in the form of a small,
red fruit? The only darkness you’ll ever
know is found at the bottom of that cup.