A Pomegranate Cell
This shining bag coddles a seed,
cushions its patient power
first in lusciously tinted juice,
good for flavoring cocktails, then
in a gleaming translucent baguette.
A flock of flamingos,
a thousand heart-shaped tongues,
sweet granules tumble
from an astringent rind
guarding their potency.
Spread carefully into a curving
row around her neck,
they would stain like blood
the bare chest of Persephone,
embellishing any fertility rite
with all the color wanted
to stimulate love and feed
the frenzy for propagation.