Sophia Orr

On the mainland it's a blizzard,
But 30 miles out to sea it's just so many sheets of rain
And a wind that whips the sand ariel
To sting at the corners of your mouth
And eyes, to settle in the creases
Of your clothing.
With weather like this—
Whitecaps visible past the point
And the ferries docked all day—
No one is likely to venture out
And I am left all afternoon with a pomegranate,
One of the more exotic offerings at the Stop & Shop,
Waxy and almost geometrical
With an improbable tuft of hair,
All that's left of the stamen when flower glutted
Into fruit.

As a child I was all for delicate dissection,
Each membrane parchment to be peeled away
Unbroken, each seed extracted individual and radiant,
Each pit spat onto a pile,
Even refuse rendered orderly and catalogued.

It's hard not to think of the heart
With this pomegranate baring
Its ventricled chambers in my hand,
The glossy seeds so many drops of blood congealed,
A lifetime's relinquishing
If, as in the old myth, each seed is a month
Ceded to the darker world.

Still I'm no Persephone,
No fairer flower. Lacking
Fabled beauty and even
The consolation of virtue
I fear no Dis and am left
Free to bury my face in the fruit,
My teeth puncturing
The plump skinned seed casings
Tasting tart juice and, beneath,
The slightest sourness.