Pomegranate Poem

#1. 
At first,
 Red, ripe and full of promise
The skin keeps its secret
Held Inside its tough exterior.

#2.
 In celebration, Mother cuts the fruit open
      exposing chambers of seeds,
Dripping red and holding the anticipation
Of a holiday’s sweetness.
My sister and I suck the juice
From each mouthful,
While Mother instructs us to chew and spit the bitter, pulpy flesh
Out of our mouths,
Our fingers stained with the pomegranate’s blood.

#3.
With the taste of raisins and cinnamon on our tongues,
       Sleep comes for us with sticky hands.
I dream of candles lit,
One for each dead parent, and their parents.
In the still of the dream,
Candles flickers with the wind of our breath. And
      Pomegranates herald each Rosh Hashanah, all years
Past, present, future.

#4.
The pomegranate sits empty now; brittle rind.
The broken pieces left now,
fragile, like a fairy tale carriage,
Waiting for its bride to return before midnight.
It’s  round rooms harbor
Stories of Persephone,
memories of Mother and ritual,
      holding on to the mystery of hope and love
      In the palm of a hand,     
      In a pomegranate seed.