Stolen Pomegranates 

When I was a young girl, 
my best friend and I 
would hop the chain-link fence at school 
and sneak 
onto the neighbor’s land
to play in the pomegranate groves. 

The shrubby trees 
grew on the other side 
of an expanse of raw tilled earth. 

                  The man who owned the land 
                                  loomed large in our imaginations, 
                 though we had never seen him,
a shadowy figure, we knew only 
as Mr. Alexander. 

It was rumored that Mr. Alexander 
owned a shotgun and hated trespassers. 

Not only did this not stop us, it encouraged us.  
                What better adventure than to run, 
                                 heart pounding, 
                                 over a dangerous open space, 
to arrive, victorious, breathless, 
                 in the safe shelter 
of shade and leaves—

to risk one’s skin 
for a sweet, stolen fruit?