Robin F. Brox

from POMEGRANATES

The Ocular Proof — at fissure lustre undertow.

what is once vibrant ruby rots, desiccates, degrades
sweetly shining dulls with age, a season of neglect
indoor forest fire

behold a frequency, narrow bands of slinking feline power,
redness between shadows and redness so constant,
reveals luscious contours

collapsing, note the gnarl and discoloration, the
crisps lull themselves matte but what matter
one more piece of which poet’s “tossed aside, bruised fruit”—

mark the animal tracks in drought-dust
make them amiable enough or purely antisocial
provocateurs, instigating investigation of what’s on the prowl

single words written on scraps of paper and pocketed, mantra
for melding the possible, a pomegranate cannot be crossed
with a tomato in good conscience

the grove grows best in dry well-drained soil, a rare
sight in the Americas, secrets to the deep red juice lost to the
hearts of old Afghani farmers and Palestinian girls’ dreams

deserting the nightmind, arid creativity
spring up, sweet berries in leather, inspire
a movement toward the loss of reluctance

courage sprouts new leaves, careful to collect
the vitality of sunlit days, disciplined in the art of reproduction
flowers flow in animated conversations to become themselves

a heart of hard plastic in hand,  flat palm presenting
another kind of fruit to be found floundering
flatbacked, fabricating itself out of honeytoned whispervoice

time is not kind to the fruit left hanging, gather when gathering calls
each seed is a vial of potential for the next grove to appear
planted where one would not expect roots to go wide so wisely

the sweetest juice is shared from her lips, from her
tongue centuries are remembered, culture is distilled
redness of a window dreaming itself opens

from Raw February

when it rains possibility some serious
rethinking of what is a turn-on (intelligence is sexy,
power is sexy, humor is sexy,
initiative is sexy, courage
is sexy) sweet lord, to be
thought of as much, as often
as thinking—new acquaintances
& older, and very old and never-met
or not-yet-introduced,
‘Don’t make it too easy’ is
great advice on poetry but
why not give it up easily,
like the judge who recites “I am
afraid you’ll say ‘yes’”


unlike you
no traps save choice
its voices
gaping, a rip-open
with a wish toward tighter
less to stretch an undoing


anatomy of:
I can’t help
who I love


sure, your smile
and those hands, sure
but what matters
buckled fast


making home
simple, difficult
“spread your legs”


break its glass voice


baby, ginger is an attempt
to distract myself from cavern, absence


ah, New York, swinging
in Riverside Park on
lunch break, break-
down on to word
use, juice of joints crossing &
recrossing pull, pull,
pull—After ‘to sit’
& before it again, a
gain of the letter O
oh, tradition!

dishing (dirt on the dead)

a relief
to combine
a substance
with rock
fallen nouns
down vowel-slopes
a window
into being in
nature, arms
and branches
optimistically
raised raising
a leaf, relief

---

Robin F Brox lives at Dreamtime Village in rural southwest Wisconsin after spending most of her life in Buffalo, New York. A lifelong hockey fan, she also enjoys cooking, dancing, and gardening--especially permaculture--as hobbies. She is a left-leaning ambidextrous person and has been noting of late what actions are performed by which hand:  pouring coffee, left; using a sharp knife, right; bowling, right; tooth-brushing, left.