There is no neat locus of blame anymore –
the overgrown fruit has been excised.
Though the belly still swells, remembering its sole occupant
a pomegranate filled with rotting seeds.

Too large at a pound,
but too small to be weighted with the burden
of the body
of the family
of the future.

Small wonder then, you should find yourself a little erratic
beneath the pressure.

And how do you find yourself now that your bits and pieces
will wander no more?
Unencumbered and forever swimming pickled in a clear jar?
Incinerated and sent skyward as wisps of ash floating on the wind?

What I mean to say, is that I hope you’re free.