I

As I carve into you

I’m reminded of Holy Wars

This drought-tolerant beauty.

Your thick skin

around your core

like faces cracked from the sun

Your white,

astringent pulp,

powers the Ayurveda system

warding off disease.

Your seeds, purple like a sultan’s robe.

Your bitterness

is like the tongues of

two nations fighting.

I consume you red bulb of fruit.

Punica,

Punica,

You have bested thousands of

sandstorms to crawl

out of the Middle East

to spread your creation

around our vibrant

storybook world.

II

Ancient Persia:

You give invincibility,

And protect its core from me.

Ancient Greece:

The Gods manipulate you,

As I operate your insides.

Ancient Egypt:

You’re a symbol of ambition

and prosperity that doesn’t give me power.

Punica,

Punica,

China:

The emblem of fertility,

making your seeds gratifying.

Christianity:

You’re forever-painted in time,

and fade away off my table into the abyss.

            III

Missoula, Montana:

You, Pomegranate

has powers and exquisite textures

To land on my

grandmother’s kitchen table,

for sacrifice,

for smooth jelly.

But for me,

I cut you,

blend you

to make you

into jelly

to eat on

a piece of bread.

Kris Price