Pomegranate

She conjures the list of groceries for her monthly run 
to the local shop that is spelled with an extra “pe”--
and for whatever ancient reason, it is spelled like that --
the rectangular sheet of lined paper only says the word
Pomegranate.

She knows she needs more than that to survive, however, her
mind deceives her and leads her astray to the aisles
with bountiful fruits, some melons, some citrus, and some berries.
She plucks the richly red fruit from its table, the label titled
Pomegranate.

She leaves with the only one and cares for it like her kin;
bathing the fruit in lukewarm water, soaping off the dirt ever so
delicately and tenderly, like it is her own body, humming songs
to calm it as it is prepared for a harsh sacrifice, the “gracing” of the
Pomegranate.

She cries like when cutting onions, except she has a reason
for these sudden emotions that flow from her like a fountain.
She mourns the purity of this beautiful fruit of tart abundance
and builds a hastened grave out of a tissue box and scrap cloth for her
Pomegranate.

She finally let's go and allows this fruit, her right of passage
as a woman, to rot in sweetness until turns bitter like the world.
Corrupted by gravity and grime, it’s violated by its deflowering 
and it bleeds a sickly color, leaving its final mark on the world, the 
Pomegranate.