Hair tussled and swept
Like dry yellow grasses
On a hillside close to Halloween
She stands before a mirror
Eating a pomegranate
With curious ferocity
Occasionally she glances
After her image
Takes in its angular

Then goes back to the fruit

The mirror never speaks back
Only silence and pictures
Wrap around her soft white alibi
She digs into the skin
Blood red juice squirts its rapture
On her naked lonely reverie
Washing her hands in silence
Stained mouth smiling
Rinsing the stickiness from each fingertip

She goes back to the fruit

Words: Jill Freeman, Music: Laura Zambo