By Rae Gouirand
I am thrust through myself in this dark we take up,
deep-eyed as the red bulb
exploded on its branch. I too am opened.
I too watch it quartered
that gemmed torture of seed. Watch it sieve—
watch the hand separate
hull from garnet. Pray the cuts of these pupils
might find what is sharp—
there are those who will continue to call one
by name. See these pips. To claim
a clear space one need only split. Sometimes it kills
to marry a definitive thrum, those
hundreds of nows. More granular than grenade
or grenadine—you crown
yourself uncounted. Stand in the place none
describes untouched. May each
catch as that candle in scarlet transparency
against the rub of the couch,
leaving no margins, no room for belief. Once
fruit is set it clamors in its chamber
until it bursts. Choose among these those seeds
you will eat. Most are neat
and hold a stain as dark as any history, as any
commandment we’d be stunned to read.

Rae Gouirand is the author of eight titles of poetry and prose, including Glass is Glass Water is Water (Spork Press, 2018), Little Hour (Swan Scythe Press, 2022), and two forthcoming titles, Rough Sequence (Seven Kitchens Press, 2023) and The Velvet Book (Cornerstone Press, 2024). She leads independent workshops in northern California and online, including the cross-genre workshop Scribe Lab, and lectures in the Department of English at UC-Davis.
Website: raegouirand.com