Pomegranate Martyrs

by Mikayla Henry

My Mother never taught me the proper way

to peel pomegranates.
Thanks to my Father, I only know to plunder;
my fingers submerged in the flesh,

filling each crevice it has to
surrender
with the soured juices staining under

my nails to leave their own mark

on me.
The shell left after

I’ve had my fill

can hardly be described as
pomegranate.