Granted the Pomegranate

Jonathan Stout

Cousin Grant drew mac 10s firing bullets off the page’s margins where no consequence would fall copper bb by the millions from the eleven story sky of the apartment building my great uncle lived in at one point when he thought a lot about cancer. It was natural then for grandmother Omi to speak of Catholicism as a way to integrate: salvation was earthly in the time of war, in fleeing, in brother one’s escape, in brother two’s murder. Killed before the train ride, the train trip. We’re Jewish right grandma and exasperation fills her five-foot hunch- frame her hold on a gnomic sensibility, hard to describe, her hair nimbus, alive, survival having lent it a life of cloud, limbed by Bach she’d play on the tall organs lost in the Black Forest that escaped the fires. Why is there always a horizon there imagined in deciduous canopy and urban fracture spilling out before the prairie (after the prairie) reverts reversion itself back into itself, making fuel for insulin pumps across the planet? Hoses, a kind of serpent, but rubber, fangless, without venom, if they led from individual grain say quadrillions of granules trying out a gold before combine lines delivered linear tracks, tattoo rows with inches for margins of error, shucking thousands per second, would you climb up or down in the forest forged anew? Would a forward exist? Backwards has acrobat too, a practice? The nest would stutter mapping machines, at least briefly. Mishaps would turn into eggs whole networks would vehicularize and configure a new botany. Dead sing before dying of many things? Remark the pomegranate quality, taste the cotton candy symbol. I jumped off of a terminal train great-uncle Reinhardt said. I think I even know what that means but I still say it feels strange to revel in a kayak when shells diaspora the years of that war, depleted, munitions, mutant lotus mushed, raking away distance—I’m not ready for y o u   t o   b e    g o n e   f o r   g o o d   f a t h e r .