I'm back from Boskone and in the world again. I took a little down time to catch up with myself.
Bayla Fine received the Black Pomegranate for her collection so here it is.
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"
It was inspired by this poem by Elena Rose that I heard at a reading. She blogs at little light
. It was the first time I heard a poem and immediately know I wanted to sculpt.
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."