Eating a Pomegranate

It’s a mess. 

Children crowded into an orphanage. 

You know you are supposed to choose one,

but they move together like a Greek chorus. 

They seem to be dreaming.

You don’t wish to hurt any of them but they

cry tears of sweet blood.

They hide so well, like cloistered monks

secreting away morsels of divine guidance.

Can you promise them something more

than desert rain?

When you’re finished,

without clothes or regret,

they will forgive you.