The lake was looking her in the eye.
She was thinking about pomegranates:
the strange poetry inside dark-blooded
seeds, patient injuries. He was giving them
names, making them edible. He was
rewriting the theory of everything:
telling her she was beautiful, the way
rotting fruit is beautiful. She was
telling him she loved him, too.
She was hurting on the inside
like a pomegranate. The lake was
My name is Tracy Gaughan. I'm a writer based in Galway, Ireland. My poetry and short fiction have been widely published in literary magazines and journals, including The Blue Nib Magazine, The Honest Ulsterman, Re-Side and Wellington Street Review.I recently completed an MA in International Literature & Media at NUI Galway.