To Peel a Pomegranate

Pomegranate in hand.

Heavy, firm. 

I cut the protruding tip

From the top of this round fruit.

Unfolded,

I am amazed by the complex labyrinth.

Arils emerge from these winding paths,

I cut

Its skin 

to unfurl its seed.

I dig my fingers

Into its womb,

and break open its integument.

Until it’s open

like a blossomed flower.

These red orbs call to me.

And so,

I picked one. 

Careful,

to free it from any pith,

before it is placed in a jar.

As I pick,

It bleeds,

but I will not stop, 

I do not want to,

I can’t. 

My fingers pluck, 

my fingers drop,

until my mind makes it one

never ending cycle. 

Crimson creeps

into my cuticles.

A mark

of something deeper than taste.

What am I peeling,

really?

Is it fruit,

or memory?

Is it juice,

or grief?

I continue to fill the jar

like if each seed could ever fill the silence

with meaning.

As though enough pomegranate

might finally answer

what was never asked aloud.

I ask if I should stop,

my hands shake “no”.

I’ve picked every pomegranate seed I could,

and yet, 

the jar is not filled. 

It is no longer the beautiful fruit 

I started with.

It’s inner workings 

taken from its body. 

All that’s left,

Is a puddle of it’s red.

My stained fingers,

and the parts of this once brilliant fruit, 

that no one wants.

Cover photo credits: Flicker