2 Poems by Nic Job

Pomegranate Mare

I don’t even know
where to begin—
maybe with this pomegranate
with this purplish-red ball
I was eating picking
the tiny plump seeds
from and popping them between
my teeth one by one
enjoying the chain of pint-sized
explosions of bitter juice
and the hard core wedged
in the permanent retainer bar
behind my teeth maybe instead
I should begin—
mother sent me outside
to stand with my father
and his little red mare
Sheza
Sheza Fine Time
with the star on her forehead
that isn’t really a star
but then neither is the one
on the top of my pomegranate
the one my elementary school friend
taught me to use for leverage
when peeling open
the stubborn fruit
and in middle school
another friend showed me
the expediency of prying
it apart with two forks
piercing the star
and how we still had time
for recess if we shared
and all our hands would be stained
the same shade of bloody red
our teacher would scold us
for and make us wash away
as if we were dipping our fingers
into the life dribbling
out of each fleshy seed
or maybe I should begin—
the first time I saw my father cry
I stood beside him out on the driveway
pomegranate stains on my fingers
while his little red mare shuffled her feet
while the vet gave the fatal injection
while my father kissed her nose
while her head drooped
and her eyes clouded
and
eventually
each

knee

folded.

Paralysis

The dorm room feels smaller with the extra furniture
stacked around the edges—
I am still frozen with sleep
unmoving
waking doesn’t feel like waking
only like drifting into madness

my weighted blanket
perpetual hug
holds me the way his thighs across my chest
hold me and even as I choke I see
my alarm clock in the dark
6:37pm
I had class at 6:30
but he occupies
my throat and all I can do
is stare blankly at the ceiling
and wonder how did we come to this

after my limbs remember
their autonomy
after they have curled me until
I am no longer on my back
after my fingers find her contact in my phone
complete with the red heart emoji
she finds me
after I can no longer see him
but his thighs have not left my chest
and my throat is raw and burning
and the tears come now to paint
runnels of crusty salt to the corners of my mouth
as the muscles in my back and neck try to recoil
despite the hard linoleum

she re-wraps me in the blanket
she bought for me on our first date
adds her arms to the weight of it on my back,
presses me into his thighs
murmurs distractions I don’t understand

—she doesn’t know he’s here.

Nic Job is a student of the world, and spends as much time as they can traveling and observing; cultures, places, people, and themself.