Teika Marija Smits Pomegranate

Pomegranate

Once, it was ripe; a chalice to a multitude of seeds, each seed a fertile ruby plump with crimson juice.

Now it withers, lays untouched. Unseen.

Soon, a woman will take a knife, sigh and then slice into it.

She will marvel at its innards, its desiccated womb, so like her own.

Glorious in its decay, it will stain her clothes purple.