Whereas at Venice
— after D.H Lawrence’s “Pomegranates”
For my part, I prefer my heart to be broken.
which is a wise choice, for it is
No doubt you have forgotten the pomegranate-trees in flower
it was so long ago, and I another woman then
but no, I have not forgotten them, flowering pomegranates
Oh so red, and such a lot of them
Pomegranates to warm your hands at
it was a hotter land, and I merely a girl
in the dense foliage of the inner garden
there is always a garden, and a secret in it
a secret gate, a garden, in the city’s twisty heart
Abhorrent green, slippery city
pretending to be elevated, elegant, but teetering
ruptured gold-filmed skin, dawn-kaleidoscopic
within the crack
the piazza too is cracked, the duomo split
What do you know of pomegranates?
what do you know of the heart’s integument
the body’s soulful argument
Do you mean to tell me you will see no fissure?
Who are you, who is anybody, to tell me I am wrong?
this city’s orchards bear misshapen fruit
but nothing whole is entirely interesting
For my part, I prefer my heart to be broken.
Isobel Dixon grew up in South Africa, where her debut, Weather Eye, won the Olive Schreiner Prize. Read more.
“Whereas at Venice” reprinted from A Whistling of Birds by Isobel Dixon (Nine Arches Press, 2023).