By Anastasia Vassos
Many angels to wish
white wings fall
from a pin,
of the tongue,
from the body
in a stream.
I ponder the dark illiteracies that cannot be undone:
a pomegranate, an apple.
Let me be a book before it’s written.
Words lined up in proper order behind the heart.
Pomegranate seeds that glow like garnets
cleaving to white pith inside red, burly skin.