The black pomegranate pendant/sculpture was inspired by this poem by Elena Rose that I heard at a reading. She blogs as little light. This was the first time I heard a poem and immediately knew I wanted to sculpt the imagined pomegranate. It was the first piece I’ve ever done that was inspired by a specific poem and the desire to capture and transform part of its essence. I’ve since found other poems that directly inspire me. It’s a new challenging, difficult and pleasurable part of my process.
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Size is about 2″ by 2″. It’s dark antiqued sterling with rubies for the seeds. Text reads ” Imagine a dark room. Imagine a pomegranate”
Imagine a pomegranate.
A little red flower got what it wanted and it withers, its hips swelling until it is glossy and round and hard and so ripe-full of promise it is tearing its own seams.
You don’t rush a pomegranate.
It’s the only fruit I know of that, if you stab a knife right in, it bleeds. Pomegranates are for the patient and determined.
Imagine a pomegranate, full of blood and secrets. You have to draw your fingers along it, feel how it fits together under the skin, where the ribs are. Your knife should be sharp: two deep strokes across the flower, strong and sure—four more, light and sweet, scoring all the way around, shallow, expectant, just enough pressure to give it license to crack.
Two thumbs, certain fingers, a twist, in halves, in quarters the color of my mouth.
You break the seeds and stain your shirt, if you don’t know your way, if you’re hasty. An easy fingertip, just so along each garnet-top, and it’s free, into the bowl or your teeth. Keep the little bitter white end. You need it.
Imagine a pomegranate, chamber after chamber, stroke by stroke, lifting one honeycomb translucent membrane with stained fingertips, exploring, full after full, sting after sweet, discovering, until there is only rind left. You have to share, you have to take your time, imagine.
Imagine my body, where my womb isn’t. Where no child will be cradled in the bowl of my hips, below the stomach of me. Imagine where I crack open, imagine where I bleed even though each month I am reminded that I am barren as the Moon.
My body ends with me. You have to take your time and there will be only rind left, some day, paper and ribs and stains, sting after sweet, inside out.
Imagine this death. I am underground, my breasts heavy, feeding nothing. I am mint and endings. I am all-hospitable, I am the treasure-house, I am full.
Imagine a dark room, where my seeds are scattered, and I am not eating, and my hips swell but my body ends with me.
Imagine a pomegranate.
Elena Rose will be reading from her work at Girl Talk: A Trans & Cis Woman Dialogue Thursday, March 24th here in San Francisco, as will our guest blogger Marlene Hoeber.
