Christmas Eve, we remember
Elizabeth and Mary—barren,
virgin mothers bearing
their sacred children.

I prepare a contribution for tomorrow’s feast,
a festive salad with feta, mandarin oranges,
pomegranate. As I deseed the pomegranate,
crimson pools on the cutting board, splatters
as I quarter the fruit.

I peel back the flimsy white membrane,
carefully free the garnet berries
into a bowl. I wipe the countertop
quickly lest the bittersweet
juice leave a stain.

The empty, deep red rinds rest
beside the cutting board, white insides scraped
clean, with impressions like a cathedral
ceiling in relief.

How does one hold a symbol?
I only know the bowl’s
heaped high with the storied
seeds, and the way they remind me
of my own shape and thirst.

Later, I leave a red trail after my shower,
traces of an ancient current chambered
within me. I stain the grey towel.

Lord only knows what fruit a virgin can bear.