My mother always complained about peeling pomegranates
It was never my hate, hating them became my habit
Hard wood on the outside, blood red under the fingernails
An expedition of crimson white, trapped in the details
With blade in hand, I sit and trace a seam,
A line so faint, like an old whispered dream.
The rind surrenders, the chambers appear,
Tiny nestled jewels, so crystal clear.
I crack the shell open as daylight spills,
The seeds scatter, like stars in hidden hills.
Each one a treasure-trove, each a prize,
Hugging each other beneath fragile skies.
Took my little knife and my little time
Picked up the ruby pieces and made them rhyme
Unlike my mother, I was successful
I don't think they were that messy—you just weren't careful.
A patience found in a quieted pace.
Letting it unravel was never a race
The skin, thick as secrets, does not tear wide,
Under rough hands, it cracks and cries inside
Press it to your temple, wait for the sound,
Heed the silent rubies, waiting to be found.
But rush the patience, and the fruit will weep,
The crimson stains will soon begin to reap.
Juice on your hands, on the table, the floor,
Chaos unleashed where there was calm before.
You’ll blame the pomegranate, curse its design,
Not seeing that the fault was never mine.
Ruby seeds didn’t wish to scatter at all—
I was never messy mother, you just weren’t careful.