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The fruit is red, hard
–shelled and stubborn.
Resisting any tasting –
it holds tight its seed.
We buy one at the market,
you never having partook.
I tell you, monks dried them out;
sewed pomegranates to their cassocks,
dried bells that rattled as they walked about an otherwise quiet monastery.
As I say it, I can hear their dry rattle.
A snake in the garden.
The fruit is presented in simple brown bag, leaves still clinging, redolent of the country and of earth and tree.
We run fast home through the soft Paris rain,
so eager for this ritual.
Your mouth hungering for the taste.
With a knife I split hard the red fruit,
watch as the juice bleeds out
dip my finger to give you quick taste
which you suck clean off.
I like, is all you’ll say.
I show you how to scoop out the seeds,
How to get them by the spoonful.
You have already developed your own technique, split the rind in two, your mouth closing
about each seed, bitten, sucked and eaten. After, you rest on your haunches,
our lips fruited-pink;
It is only then that I know;
Love, I have pleased you well.