This Poem Is (or, Is Not) About Pomegranates

I am mastering the art of eating pomegranates gracefully.
Like a blood vessel bursting open,
they’re always looking for somewhere
to leave the evidence of a massacre in progress.

The trick is containment:
you need something large enough to minimize splatter
yet, light enough to facilitate a hasty escape
once things start to get messy.

It’s easy to see all the ways things can go wrong.

What you don’t see are all these tiny little seeds-
ripe and red and buried deep enough that a surface scratch can’t reach them,
unwilling to let go until something needs a good cleaning,
daring you to deal with it when it does.

Well, I’ve got a knife and a bowl, and I’m ready for anything.

I’ll make sure that at the end of the carnage,
only the sweetness will leaves life’s taste on the tongue,
and the bitterness will be an echo of a memory
of all the mistakes I’ve made to come this far,
which a few drops of water can easily wash away.

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