your eyes can no longer take on the world
like pomegranates dangling, ready to fall
from a twisted branch; they are not filled
with coriander seeds and knowledge
but are instead teaming with wine glasses—
crystal, smudged with oily fingerprints
and cigarette ashes from the night before;
they are onion bulbs who leave those around them
in tears; they are scissors snipping little hairs from my head
bit by bit: each blink is a crunch of an acorn
sewn into my torso—every lash a licorice whip,
leaving my mouth red and thick with sugar—
a vice my face must only endure
every time my stomach growls.
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