Image by Harold Ross Fine Art Photography
by Anna Rozwadowska
The bright cherry red plum, sprinkled with bruising, an odd shade of grey,
slid across the table with your insistent hand,
your force was such that the penetration into the floor was intense,
blood juice and seeds everywhere, remnants of health
reminders of your force and heedless ways.
It was the singular pomegranate that slid across the room
evolving from fruit laden trees to the crushing of spectacles,
on our kitchen floor; there was no better way to metaphor our love,
our distorted life.
You were a 9 I was a 7,
a business dweller knee deep in the money, me, a mistress of the forest,
yin and yang could not cooperate as we melded into the floor,
unlike into each other, energetic opposites,
clear house of destruction.
Some things are not meant to be.
Broken chairs glued together, not for lack of money but my determination
and your lack of will, you lived a sheltered life I lived with honey.
Knockoffs of Van Gogh, yin and yang so.
Adventures would keep you away for months, difference made itself clear
with every newfound scratch on your darkened face, sun freckles aging you
like the toil of mankind’s labor, it seeks the riches, the pretender seeks it too,
only the wicked few know labor means nothing with Spirit,
linkage through ether sources on papyrus,
you knew I was not an ordinary kind, yin and yang disappear in vast circles,
trailing our forefathers in their shadows,
you care not, my hands picking up the crimson seeds,
it was a time of undoing like the essence of who you pretend to be,
crimson seeds splattered on the floor along with grey bruises,
they reflect my being, my separation from your world,
thank God for the blessing.