Pomegranates are better than baseballsfor throwing. They sting and stain,
burst open like grenades, split in two
or three; some seeds scatter, while others
cling like crimson cells inside white,
intestine-like membranes. The scattered seeds
of pomegranates splatter skin and clothes
with thin blood.
We stole our ammunition from a tree.
We ran hard, ducked fast, and hid well behind
boulders and trees, deep inside ditches, all
the while armed with pomegranates in our
pockets, an ambush under each armpit,
another in every hand.
Mere children, we mimicked our world.
First published in Cold Mountain Review, Summer, 2011