I. Pomegranates

 

papá used to work in the fields

as a farmer picking pomegranates.

Their leathery skin pricked by his wrinkled hands.

And always after: “Let us go to the garden.”

 

papá’s hands only picked the most beautiful blooms:

“The best for your Mamá, or she shall leave us.”

 

papá indulged in every scented petal,

acquiring mementos of wealth that did not stem

from the doings of women. But papá never

let me indulge: “This kind of love is not for boys.”

 

papá wrapped them in fine silk,

crafting bouquets of beauty

with his bare hands. I’d always ask him, “why?”:

“To remind your Mamá of my love,” but

 

papá did not believe in such things:

“Picking a flower is to kill it. Beauty reminds it of its own mortality.”

 

papá passed along baskets of rotten fruit,

when he pried one open, the smell of fish.

papá indulged, with just one bite.

Dead, “The plague.”

 

II. Petals

 

mamá picked her garden-flowers for Papá

’s grave. mamá examined men

like Papá examined petals:

“The world is not as it used to be.”

 

mamá had heard the news of the vegetative plague:

“It is time to suck the seeds out of rotten fruit, son.”

 

mamá passed along the basket of money

(she still prayed). Even though she laid with men,

of dirt and grime, she still believed in God:

“Please Father, this is all we can afford.”

 

mamá sent me to the orchards. Trying not to

contract the plague. Opening the rinded flesh,

letting the seeds cascade out. Rotten,

“The whole orchard must be infested.”

 

mamá plucked petals off from her wilting roses:

“You have brought the plague to our house.”

 

mamá made tea from the barren petals.

Hours of prayer, rosary beads in hand.

Longing to rid of our fish-scented house:

“This tea tastes of death.”

 

III. pain

 

I tasted the tea Mamá had left behind.

Her body masked the scent of fish.

Back came that citrusy scent,

“This tea tastes of freedom.”

 

I passed along Mamá’s casket; Papá was not given a proper burial,

“Padre Nuestro que estás en el cielo.”

 

I secretly longed for the stench of pomegranates.

The fields were filled again with men

bewitched by the beauty of seeded fruit,

“Now I know how Mamá felt.”

 

I became the one whose touch cured

the plague. Men came with bouquets that rivaled

Papá’s. But to the man whose flowers had already wilted,

“You smell just like my Papá.”

 

His bouquet was decomposed, unholy, unblessed.

“Picking a flower is to kill it. Beauty reminds it of its own mortality,” he said.

 

I became a flower whose petals

men longed to touch. Everyday,

for him I’d pick pomegranates and

peeled petals out from my skin.

 

Oh how Papá y Mamá would have

revolted so with the smell

of our home. But this a not a love

any boy could acquire. He reminded me:

 

“Love is like a flower,

to kill it is an act of beauty.”