Only when I eat pomegranate seeds
do I think of you now.
Red drops remind me of your hands around my neck.
Pulled back to the recollection
of the ravenous nest,
created from tears of wine.
I cannot remember if I
dripped wax on your distorted collar,
or if your mother was the one to recall you to hell.
I do not feel guilty
when I turn myself back into a sprig
beside the wall of Narcissus.