Spanking the Arils From a Pomegranate

Nature has given me a jewel,
Says NPR. At pomegranate-dot-
O-R-G the no-mess in one,
Two, three steps guarantee a fool-
proof pick. One: cut the crown and lot
The fruit in sections. Two: now run
Your fingers through the sections in
A bowl of water. Three: toss skin,
Water, and membranes. Eat and grin.

Homer mentions pomegranates—
Le pomme garnete, crop of the gods,
Fertility and hope in lore,
Solar system-tiny planets,
Prosperity, cephalopod,
A Chinese apple minus core,
Granatum, rustic beauty long
Been inspiration for a song
Or sculpture, laurel with spiked prong—

This is my poem about a fruit.
A blacker berry’s not as sweet
As a knife, two dripping halves and spoon-
Back bitch-slapped skin. And it’s a beaut’.
As Nature’s wife, gifted, I beat
The stubborn arils out; and, for
The sake of boredom, beat them more
Than necessary, candy store

Red Hots clotting the cutting board,
Gripping the knife’s serrated blade.
If I wore aprons, they’d be stained.
The emptied membranes, bruised and cored,
Are preemie craniums, afraid
With gaping sockets. Overstrained,
As muse, they could be a face or letter,
A whetstone, or a scarlet whetter.
I eat my young. O, I feel better.