Outside they are hard and protective, opening they are difficult and seedy. The juice runs down, first on our chins and would be on our shirts where later it will turn black in the wash – visual evidence of a fruit crime for which welting punishments are recommended. Except that we have taken off our clothes and hung them on the fence. We are naked, hard and protective on the outside, complicated and seedy, red with membranes within. I don’t know why we bother to break them open except for a lack of entertainment and sweet things. The dog in the caretaker’s yard barks and barks his audible evidence of fruit crime. We leave the pomegranate tree, clean our faces with our tongues, rinse our hands in the basin edged pool of the creek. Regaining the safety of our clothes, we creep back through the fence. Lining up for class we can’t quite erase the sweetly fermenting smell of a fruit crime.