Pomegranates and Hand Grenades

I float above you your body a fairground,
my brandishing Jack-in-the-box.

I have always wanted to freeze time.
Suspended in the space between the last click on the roulette wheel and the moment just before.


High above you on a Ferris wheel I watch you drag her ghost around like some kind of prize, parading your grief like the shining trophy its become.

Your admonition fierce.

But if you wanted a pomegranate I would get you one.
I would even find the actual tree it grew on, pick out every little seed,
so you could feel them explode like hand grenades in your mouth.
And I would be jealous of there close proximity to you
while I sit in awe on the outside.