The pomegranate, halved, looks like a brain,
exposed and vulnerable, papery membrane
shielding the cells, easy to take apart:
too apt an image for my father's mind.
I peel the membrane clear, loosen the seeds
from bitter pith. The juice flies everywhere,
pinpricks of purple staining where they touch.

My mother's anger holds the world in thrall,
makes winter everywhere. How many seeds
would I have had to eat to get away
for good? It didn't work like that for me:
to eat what I was given kept me bound
unwilling daughter in my mother's house.
Why, this is Hell, nor am I out of it.

The mind is its own place, and in itself
can make a hell of heaven, a heaven of hell.
Easier said than done. A part of me
still hopes for spring, though it can't come for him,
still clings to signs of life. I crunch the seeds
and taste the sun in winter's shortest days.
We move towards the turning of the year.