he would pick the fullest one from his tree
and place me next to him
so i could watch as he unfolded the pomegranate
placing every seed
into rose-water & melted sugar.
i would reach
push into the salt-water cushions
wait as they slowly refilled
ignoring his task
making a simple unfolding
into an hours-long conversation.
a sea of devotion. principle
were my grandfather’s gifts to me.
whose pomegranate roots stood long before
Occupation was bre(a)d (& butter)
whose heart direction facing east
still today. especially today
is cause for imprisonment. bullets. bombs.
when he left, and i had to unfold the pomegranate myself,
they told me that
once upon a time,
he had been taken for nine months
a political prisoner
who when returned
first took the hand of my grandmother
and then kissed his children,
ate and had his coffee
ending his night
with a small broom
to sweep the carpet of pomegranate
without his salt-water hands.
-the conversation we never had