How To Eat A Pomegranate
by and published in Edition One of Pomegranate
With a needle, he says.
Needless to say I meet him with a creased, scorpion stare,
“A needle?”
A needle? But this knife is bad enough,
sliding through crunching crust in a surgeon’s circle,
scalping the topknot of this shrunken head
(blushing red at stupid white) only to be swung, victorious,
into a gaping binliner. I clasp it tightly in my palm,
my fingers almost touching across a wrinkled skull – Have I left it too late? Best Before these liver spots and
gurning bruises – I wince and in it goes, eyes half-closed.
La grenade = pom
Had I known it, worked that one out,
I may have missed out on the smear of bloody shrapnel;
could maybe – though not likely – have survived
her
turn, her laugh, her
open-mouthed “I told you so.”
She plucks another from its Tupperware nest.
Her elbows twist and slam like pistons, as she chides me
with Her Right Way.
Not that it matters now. The deed is done.
I peek into the abyss incarnadine
inch in diameter.
I would give you a pomegranate, before I gave you an onion.
I would not have you peeling back layers
in tears of tedium.
I give you a labyrinth,
a ball of teeth,
individually gum-wrapped
(he passes the dentist’s needle,
with self-applauding fingers),
a globe of cells, an agar honeycomb.
Take this, this, this mono-colour Rubix cube,
hours of fun to be had,
discovering/obliterating hidden pips,
a dented juggling ball that…
…really complements your eyes.
This is how, he said,
you eat a pomegranate
without using your teeth.
Scott Morris
Scott Morris studies English at Warwick where he edits arts magazine, Tapfactory. He writes poetry, drama and prose and is currently building up the courage to start his first novel. Besides Pomegranate, he has also been published in Avacado magazine, so next on the cards can only be Artichoke and Broccoli.