Pomegranate

At first glance, a pomegranate

looks like it should burst

with monsoons of juice

the moment your teeth graze it,

or looks perhaps not like fruit at all

but a leathery Chinese lantern

in a restaurant run by immigrants

soon to be deported.

Yet you learn the pulpy rind

that runs straight to the heart

is honeycombed with ruby grains,

and that the seeds themselves

neither gush nor overflow,

but offer a teardrop's worth

of sweetness so subtle

you scarcely notice at first.

Cut in half, the pomegranate stains

the blade and does not wash easy.

Torn, it only darkens the hands.

You have to peel away

a bit of flesh, loosen a seed,

taste, savor, repeat. To consume

a pomegranate with rightful ceremony

may take an hour of your life

or, as Persephone learned, an eternity.