the pomegranate’s decimation

arils loosed from the yellow membrane

pith pocked and pocketed

spread across the plate Aapa 

gave us on our wedding day

my daughter, my panniq, picking at the crimson 

carapace, her graceful small fingers 

examining each aril between finger and thumb

before she consumes it, just so

reminds me of crab cooked in winter

my uncles letting loose

their catch across the tile floor

the clatter as thin tine toes

chased us 

and later the bodies’ 

carapace—craggy corniced interiors

the inner sanctum 

the source of life 

the sacred centering 

cathedral

of appreciation

have I done enough to deserve this

I hold each memory

the December light flickers out

between the dark damp trees



I watch my daughter, my panniq, as she is this moment