Fears, dears.
One of my most deep-seated fears in life is
having children.
or, to be honest, even
wanting children.
A pomegranate.
The pomegranate was hiding secrets. Smoothed with bright red, a lovely shape-- but what I wanted was on the inside. I cut open the chest of a pomegranate and it bled over the board. It stained the knife red. It would not give up its fruit. I scraped the inside with a grapefruit spoon. I compelled the hidden seeds out into the hungry white ramekin. The fruit clung home, resisted the coercion. I took the red case into my hands and tore it open, split the flesh with my fingers, my skin bloody. And it opened. The pomegranate opened and it was sweet.
. . . . .
Who is this,
coming from Edom,
with garments stained red
and crimson hands?
Who is this
who wears the juice
of grapes and the
bleeding pomegranate?
He has trod,
trod the winepress alone.
No one was with him.
No one rescued him.
. . . . .
A knife would not do,
no.
It must be His hands.