wrapped

my mother plucked pomegranate
seeds for me when i was child

and as if the bloody rubies
were not exotic enough
she would sprinkle them with golpar

{flower feathers
angelic powder
persian hogweed
heracleum persicum}

a spice
that might as well have
time travelled from ancient persia
not the middle eastern shop
in berkeley.

i never thought
about how tired she must have been
beading the seeds
plying each one
from its honeycomb home

hands stained
with the meticulous work of motherhood
selfless and giving

i would ask
her to rub my back
while i ate
a bowl of her attention
in front of the tv:

me wrapped in bliss
her distracted,
worried,
exhausted.

last week
the online
produce
delivery system
we use
accidentally
delivered
three
large
pomegranates.

this morning i selfishly
plucked all three
for myself
and gave a small bowl
to each of my kids.

i thought about the
differences between
mothers and fathers
as i felt each seed burst with
sweet tangy flavour
tempered by the tiny grains of salt.

i guess i haven’t forgotten everything
about being iranian.