Pomegranate

I quarter the fruit downstairs
in the cellar deep-well sink
squeezing each seed out,
tiny red arils floating in the bowl
of cold water—the color of dark sunsets.
The juice stains my fingers, like guilt,
like blood and pain and grief.
And suddenly, without warning
this long year of suffering
comes back in fragments,
the nightmare silence of children lost,
their cries muffled by smoke and fire—
dull shudders of the earth
heave up from bombs, from those
who should have known better—
men who will carry these lives
forever—the stupid cruelty
hate breeds, giving birth to ignorance,
anger, and last of all, regret.
Too late—the owl calls,
this cold December night—
too late. Now another winter
while we wait, listening to the wind,
to the song sorrow brings—wailing
against the nature of man,
against insolence and greed
hatred there is no cure for,
the tiny arils swirl in the water.

This article appears in April 2025.