How to Peel a Pomegranate
I have no patience for coaxing dazzle
from a stone or garnets from pomegranates
—I hack without strategy, ready to see
that ruby cavern splayed open
and feel the musty tongue smack.
My husband slices them along six edges
so they fan out in kaleidoscopic wedges,
a trick he learned from a guy on YouTube.
Last year a friend in Brooklyn served us
a feast of tacos, cheese, guac, beans, salads,
and those glossy seeds, saying the secret
was to dig them out in a bowl of water
so your fingers emerged clean, not looking like
you washed your hands in merlot.
Her burgundy dress hung by the door,
a reminder to women to revel in color,
and I thought about the garden,
how the apple was really a pomegranate
and Eve’s bite would have taken some effort
—not a careless, clueless crunch but a concerted
shucking that painted her palms crimson.
Sarah Carleton writes poetry, edits fiction, plays the banjo, and knits obsessively in Tampa, Florida. Her poems have appeared in numerous publications, including Nimrod, Tar River Poetry, ONE ART, Valparaiso, SWWIM Every Day, Rattle, and New Ohio Review. Sarah’s poems have received nominations for Pushcart and Best of the Net. Her first collection, Notes from the Girl Cave, was published in 2020 by Kelsay Books.