Burgi Zenhaeusern









I hadn't tasted pomegranate seeds until I had lived in the US for some years. Unlike my Swiss childhood's apples it was completely alien to me. My mom used to cook apples as slices or into sauce, made pie and jelly, and my dad schnapps in the basement from the windfall. As with the pomegranate, I've tried to make this, my adopted country, my own of sorts: the pomegranate turned into a Swiss German Granatöpfel, home and not home. The poem is several, and one; and it is unstable. I'm fascinated by how we become and change in the eyes of others, and in our own.