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Still Life with Pineapple, Maria Kazanskaya, Spring 1994
As we lie beneath the tree,
my lover says my breasts
are his pomegranates,
he unbuttons my blouse
for a sweet moment of harvesting.
If my breasts are fruits,
his hands are pleasant winds
that know how to kiss their stigmas.
In this lascivious spring,
where true pomegranates in the trees
won't replace the savor of a bite,
I let him fill his hands,
and kill his hunger with
his favorite pomegranates.
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