Poetry and Body Art
A Love Song of Pomegranates
They say to look for one
that feels heavier than it appears.
I test each fruit
in the palm of my hand,
feeling for the weight
of its buried gems.
Back home, I run the tip of my knife
through the thick skin,
just deep enough
so I can crack it open.
I peel back pale membranes,
thumb the fruit
until they loosen and drop.
It is a slow process. Methodical.
I work away at each section, wiggling out
the ruby teeth.
It is crucial not to break them.
Of course,
there are always a few mistakes.
The bowl fills.
The tips of my fingers blush.
My love wraps his arms around me
and watches the work.
He sneaks a handful
and slaps them into his mouth all at once.
I furrow my brow at him.
He laughs.
We are different, that way.
I eat them one by one,
picking them up between finger and thumb.
I hold them up to the light.
I pretend I am eating heartbeats.
I pretend I am
Persephone, though I’ve made my decision
long ago, and it was a good one.
Pomegranates are a practice
in patience. I don’t mind
that by the time we are done,
he’s eaten twice as much as I have.
We love in different ways:
He, eager and ravenous,
grinning with a mouth full of juice,
and I, counting each moment,
remembering the work I had done
to get here,
breaking each jewel between tongue and teeth.