The skins of a pomegranate unfurling in our palms like a lonesome heart, seeds
bursting between our teeth, pleased. Being continually two sunrises away from
the hard throws of a depression, and two more from a perfectly sculpted mania.
Dried spices dusting a full meal, one of which your sweat has seasoned, just a drop
or two, a piece of you in what you eat or feed to others. The simultaneous steps of so
many we’ll never know or walk past, stepping off the ledge, or into their lover’s doorway,
or into the throws of a life we can only imagine or view through our computer screen.
Angelica Whitehorne is a New York artist who writes poems, pieces of fiction, and stanza-formatted rants about the world we’re living in. She’s not creative enough to write about some other world, so this one is all she’s got. She has published or forthcoming work in The Laurel Review, The Cardiff Review, North Dakota Quarterly, Mantis, Ruminate, and Hooligan Magazine among others.