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,

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.