At the Core of Most Things

Some don’t eat pomegranates

because they don’t know how.

But you have a gift for tasting without seeing –

fingers crack the red rind open egg-wise,

pick cartilage fluff from caverns

and pressured rubies out of caverns –

without missing the bowl.

Even seeing, you accept your knowledge

incomplete in all the pieces tumbling out:

the pale, pink, blush, red

blood.

Between you and them it’s hard saying

which is the more deceptive,

smooth skin and dark humors

spilling at the slightest provocation.

A finger’s nail takes a swipe,

staining purple before

tossing in wounded arils.

Their teeth, however, meet yours and

you drag the shells through purple streams

along your tongue, hearing flesh burst.

The real test lies where you pull the bones

from your mouth and flick them into the bowl

to see if you can. You never miss.

While you bask in tartness, the pile grows

without your ever seeing the whiter meat.