I cut into the pomegranate
with gentle precision
because this is how
I want it done to me.
I roll my fingertips
over the clusters of seeds
and carefully consider
how I will remove them,
leaving nothing behind,
because this is how
I want it done to me.
I remove each seed one by one,
I remove each seed one by one,
with diligence,
wriggling them loose
from the spongy white flesh,
not blinking, not speaking
until the cavity of the fruit
has been emptied.
My hands are drenched
in her sticky, scarlet juice,
drying in the creases of my knuckles
as I eat.
This is pleasure.
I feel sensual.
I feel sickened.
The pomegranate is a symbol
of fertility and death.
The seeds burst between my teeth
and I savor the flavor,
feeling I am about to die;
knowing this death is rebirth.
