Pomegranate Psalm Poem by Mohit Saini

Crimson cathedral of split skin,
your hundred hearts humming—
each jewel a forbidden psalm
bursting with the tartness of saints.
O, scripture of seeds!
Who could count your devout rubies,
your sweet-tart commandments
staining the tongue like a prophet's curse?
Even the wasps grow holy here,
drunk on your fermented light,
while winter's frost tries—and fails—
to cloak your heresy in pale.
You are no Persephone's ransom,
but a grenade of grace:
unshriven, unshaken,
blooming blasphemy in every bite.