Cutting Pomegranates

My father quartered them with the bread knife

an old enemy, gripped me in its cunning

certain it would slip, spill blood

red as the juice on our skins.

We learnt with skill to bite hard

ease out each firm sweet seed,

ignore bitter stab of skin on tongue,

outback kids testing out terrain.

Sometimes I refused,

hating harsh kickbacks, only to envy brothers

thick shell flat against lips,

eyes mocking, bright dribble of promise

on their chins.

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1 Comment

• #1

  erica Duggan (Sunday, 04 October 2009 11:23)

  This poem to me so well depicts how the child in the adult resists and stands tall. Is hard to cut a pomegranate.
  It inspires me to go on.

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