My mother’s heart is a pomegranate.
She held it in her hands and introduced it to me: “I love it since I was, too, a child.”
Grown evergreen by the mothers before her, the only tree in the garden.
She waits for it to grow, greet it every day, talk to it, wait for it to grow.
By the time the cheeks blushed and plump with life, she cracked it open and gave me a taste of it.
Ruby-red sweetness chokes my throat, I didn’t know gemstones are grown on trees, the way mothers are grown in the wombs by my side.
Are you ripe when I cracked you open?
