Punica Granatum

I relish in the red staining my fingers

Dripping down my hands, my wrists,

Curling its way into my veins,

Savouring bright kernels of pilfered sweetness,

Small white seeds like bones beneath tart, red flesh.

Such delicate work for such a small yield.

The few arils, a manifestation of my humanity,

Ugly and beautiful and inefficient,

And of my femininity,

Caring and soft and inconsequential

My lips are stained red

Not with wine, but with temptation.

In some persephonic way

The seeds mean confinement

For with confinement comes purpose

Would God be proud to see his creation?

Would he enjoy making me red again,

as deep as the blood I came from?

Delicate layered and jewel-like seeds

Glowing in the sunlight