Pomegranate (8 of 12, half marathon)

I’ve never eaten this crimson, crowned fruit, although I’ve had other jewels, lychee and coconut, after shimming up the tree. I wonder if freeing the seed from a pomegranate is like scraping the seed from a papaya to get at the sweet, soft flesh beneath? Or like the seeds of guava or lilikoi, where you slurp the tangy membrane that clings to the pips. Sometimes I wonder if one of the seeds might take root, lash its shoots up my spine, send its tap down  my gut. What might grow and flower? Half fleshy me, half leafy tree. I’ve never eaten a pomegranate, although I’ve eaten other fruit. Puckered my lips around lemons. Broken through the waxy skin of cherries, teeth wary of their pits. Thrown back handfuls of blue and black and raspberries. Sometimes, they sell mango for a dollar. A bargain, for some, although we used to pick the fruit for free from the tree in our front yard. Its branches so heavy, our bellies so full we could barely move. I’ve never eaten a pomegranate. Perhaps we’re not meant to try every staple. Some might think it best to test the bounty. I say, leave some produce untasted, wonder at the ply of its peel, leave the seeds and what to do with them, a mystery.

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