Blood Fruit

Melody Dehghan

My dad peels pomegranates for me

every November,

when the season returns.

The kitchen is splattered red,

juice running down his arms

like the blood that binds us.

As I sit to eat,

I think of how this pomegranate

is the only remnant left of our abandoned lives.

Our Persian carpets are fading—decaying

Day by day,

I’m forgetting the streets of my homeland.

I can no longer remember the taste of my grandmother’s saffron rice,

nor clearly picture my grandfather’s face.

Every November, I remember all that I have gained and lost.

Every November, the season returns me to myself.

My life is stained red with love and ache,

Yet the pomegranate remains,

its seeds holding the soul of my being.

My blood runs crimson—

like the fruit.