Your song is bloodthick
squeezed gently from the pith
bloodred, staining droplets on the pale wood
like the scarlet of your smirk
and the sour tang of the tips of your hair,
my pomegranate love.

My pomegranate queen
forget to sleep, to eat, to dream
six months of every night I will retire
submerged in your inky depth
and every second of the other six I will sing to murmur to moan to
your bow on my base strings.