I walked to the ocean to ask my father–

why won’t my sisters let me eat pomegranates, I yell over the roar of the seawater.

the ocean rumbles as it rears back little by little, tides drawing in flecks of sand as it retreats

a seagull slices through the sky overhead flying towards the rugged cliffs just beyond, impervious to the sounds of water below

Don’t pretend you care how she’s doing, I say.

white clouds pass overhead, soft as cotton balls and smudged with gold

the water exhales and waves crash down onto the ocean’s mild surface,

sending a spray of saltwater flying upward as it charges thunderously towards shore

I don’t understand, I say.

(the wind gusts past me, carrying the scent of salt and sea air with it)

(you don’t have sisters, it whispers)

-

Do you or do you not have sisters? asked the robin perched on the wooden fence.

I have sisters and they are dead! I said.

When did they die? it asked.

They were always dead! I said.

(it ruffles its feathers in annoyance and I see the amber eyes under its wings when it does so)

I don’t believe you have sisters. I’ve never seen your sisters before, it said accusingly. I believe they’re like me and they don’t really exist.

(∆√∂Ωåß≈çƒ years ago, you see, a mosquito caught in its throat)

How do you feel about your sisters? it said.

They were always dead! I said.

I don’t see what that has to–

They were always dead, I said.

I don’t understand what–

They were always dead, I said. They were always dead. They were always dead. They were always dead. They were always–

-

–dead.

-

Why not pomegranates? I asked by many sisters over five years ago, as other people spoke loudly in other rooms.

[Because it is the symbol of the trapped,] they hiss in unison. [Its seeds grow into cages. Its flesh ensnares.]

Why? I said. 

[The pomegranate is the fruit of prisoners.

And you are also the fruit of prisoners.

And they were the fruit of prisoners.

And so imprisonment is your birthright.

The blood-red juice has already stained your tongue.

You are bound.

But you are not yet in chains.

Eat not the pomegranate and you will never be in chains.]

Are they getting worse? I ask.

[Worse?] My many sisters smile. [There is no better or worse to those born ghosts. They were always dead.]