You’re nothing but a bad pomme, grainy fruit (not pome), a globose berry from which we’ve garnered garnets, grange, gram, and grenadine. Sometime King in calyx, sometime Cloud or Crab, your cultivars Sweet, Phoenician, sad: Fleshman, Early Wonderful, Home. From you, grenade and filigree: the embroidery of bright arils, flesh in cells of granite. Your ripe sound, when tapped, is metallic. Colonel Amaranth, what remains once you’ve remanded all your ponchoed points? To remind yourself, rename.