March 10th, 2007
I remember the juice’s vivid stains all over the cutting board, finding dried droplets days later around my white stove. It was a messy first eating, I didn’t know what I was doing. I gave myself up to clawing and gouging out the little seeds like jewels or eyes.
It’s become a kind of careful surgery for me. The prodding, coaxing a seed-cluster from the snug membrane, itself like a birth sac. But sometimes I get impatient and take bites, membrane and all, and just use my tongue to push out seeds and spit out the rest. It feels cannibalistic to eat one sometimes, like I’m violating something. Other times I feel like I’m privy to secrets just by looking inside one, groping for the right spot to nudge out a seedbundle. Then it’ll hit me, this mild awe that I’m privileged enough to be let into it, the spilling red, the little white partitions, the sweet roe, the delicate seed-sanctums.