Pomegranate

Sweet pomegranate 

of six seeds, 

whatever will it be? 

Taken for granted, they say, 

in the holiest books of land, 

with a masculine, phrased hand 

allowing nectar of self-image to 

drip, 

drip, 

drip 

until the pomegranate 

has been deprived of 

precious, selfless life. 

But what shall be done 

now since she is left with no sweetness?

No originality? 

No morals? 

Not a thought of her own? 

Just bitterness and spite. 

Obedience and strife for a man’s word.

The seeds being the only piece of her left, t

hough were beginning to be plucked like

the forbidden fruit of Eden; 

one by one. 

The controlled, 

vulnerable pomegranate, 

taken by the hand of a selfish husband, to brush

tresses of blonde behind attentive ears, eyes

flashing a nature’s green, smitten, but is it

worth the crushing agony? 

The sprite of self-worth diminishing?

To only exist in the hands of a man 

of his own defining image. 

Spring your birth season, 

but winter comes to death. 

No more is she the pomegranate, 

but just the seed that is mechanic to be

the lustful fruit.

Alexis Terzioski

Alexis Terzioski is a senior majoring in Creative Writing. When not writing, she can be found with her favorite Starbucks drink and romance book in hand.