Pomegranate
Sweet as a low voice wafting up to my window, that
pomegranate my father brought in a Pyrex
custard cup, puckery tart as a perfunctory
peck on the cheek, bright as ten fingers wearing
red nail polish waving in the sunshine. Mysterious,
too, pile of rubies walled inside the thick hide
of a red rhinoceros, and I never realized
the lengthy mining trips Daddy went on
to bring those bright seeds in the clear glass
until I fight the whole creature on my own.
Slice and pull, wiggle the seeds loose like baby teeth;
they collapse and bleed, and soon red spatters stain
the counter, the wall, the floor, and me. This is
a good fruit to teach patience, I think, my impatience
increasing while the seeds drop into a bowl
like sand in an hourglass. And I try to picture
Daddy doing this invisible exercise with his long
pink fingers, maybe slow, surely neat,
and me receiving the glowing seeds, the teaspoon
ready, savoring the flavor but never quite
tasting their message: This I give for love.
Layli Maria Miron 