"How to become a pomegranate:" by Anjali Lodh

"To Love" by Fern Fraer

Poetry - Winter 24/25 Issue

Fill a pot with water

slowly turn up the heat

this way you won’t notice the difference

always go nine over

don’t look in the rearview mirror

make eye contact with the driver who’s tailgating you

attempt to dice a tomato with a date-stained blade you borrowed

from last week’s stress and hunger

though you know a dull knife is a dangerous one

push the emergency exit door while we run laps

because you are tired and out of breath

and crave a cold slap against sweaty skin

shower yourself in blue cheese dressing

until your already-red tips turn an unforgivable brown

and your croutons get all soggy

fold your shadow like a bedsheet and tuck it in your backpocket

feel a scarlet rash sprawl across your face like a parasite and

fill your chasm wound with sugar-free maple syrup

notice your reflection in the stainless steel

and the oblong silver

and the stinging leftovers

and the sleek gym floor

and the salad tongs

and the sticky mess you’ve created

see the piece of forgotten fruit deserted on your island

its white hedges guarding precious rubies

succulent yet neglected

now feel your pulp collapse in soft layers and curl up on the kitchen counter

wishing someone could just slice you open and see how you rot from the inside out

but instead let it fester because you are too far gone and

there are forty six ways to open a pomegranate but none of them are easy

Turn off the stove

and take note of the various stains you’ve created

on your perfect white tile backsplash

feel your pink exterior fade to a sickly orange

as your insides turn brown—

and all that’s left of you

are the seeds.