When I was a young girl,
my best friend and I
would hop the chain-link fence at school
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,
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?
One thought on “Stolen Pomegranates”
I have a purloined plum in my pocket right now.