A Secret Life
for HM
There’s a process to the pomegranate
most people don't see. First,
you hold her round body
in your open palm, press
fingers against a dimpled rind,
feel resistance and imagine
beaded bodies pushing back.
You must gather your strength here,
cut this body open with a large,
flat kitchen blade; and when
a line has struck through skin,
a river will run,
a river will stain what it touches
until the next season peels
crisp layers from the sky—
a sign it’s time to visit
the one dented cardboard bin
at the grocery with orbs
shining like snow globes.
You hold half in one hand
seeds facing your palm.
You hit the rind
with a heavy spoon
and let the weight crash
like a planet and a star.
This is where the seeds
will drop through your fingers;
this is where a bowl of water
will catch every loose nail
and forgotten thought.
A pomegranate grows on a tree
in the home of a close family friend,
grows quietly in her sitting room, nods
to the friends who come to visit, eavesdrops
on private conversations unfolding
in English and Farsi and German.
When I learned
how the pomegranate grows,
I thought—
this is no longer a pomegranate
but something else, something
barely hanging on;
one hand on a branch,
the other on its beating heart
There’s a process to the pomegranate
most people don't see. First,
you hold her round body
in your open palm, press
fingers against a dimpled rind,
feel resistance and imagine
beaded bodies pushing back.
You must gather your strength here,
cut this body open with a large,
flat kitchen blade; and when
a line has struck through skin,
a river will run,
a river will stain what it touches
until the next season peels
crisp layers from the sky—
a sign it’s time to visit
the one dented cardboard bin
at the grocery with orbs
shining like snow globes.
You hold half in one hand
seeds facing your palm.
You hit the rind
with a heavy spoon
and let the weight crash
like a planet and a star.
This is where the seeds
will drop through your fingers;
this is where a bowl of water
will catch every loose nail
and forgotten thought.
A pomegranate grows on a tree
in the home of a close family friend,
grows quietly in her sitting room, nods
to the friends who come to visit, eavesdrops
on private conversations unfolding
in English and Farsi and German.
When I learned
how the pomegranate grows,
I thought—
this is no longer a pomegranate
but something else, something
barely hanging on;
one hand on a branch,
the other on its beating heart
Yasmin Mariam Kloth’s writing explores love, loss, place and space, often at the intersection of her family memories and her Middle Eastern heritage. Yasmin’s work has appeared in various outlets, including JuxtaProse, the Rockvale Review, and others. Her first collection of poetry, Ancestry Unfinished: Poems of a Lost Generation, is forthcoming from Kelsay Books.
Art: Yuno Shiota, 『ころころ、コロコロ』 Korokoro, Korokoro, 286 cm × 205 cm, acrylic and oil pastel on paper, 8.19.2020