I ate a pomegranate the other day. I didn’t want to eat it, didn’t even want to look at it… just got so damn tired of seeing it in the fridge. Round, red lushness, rich as a cherry; lascivious as the first apple—it lured me in like the sirens of past lore. I held it in my hand and felt its firm outer shell. Inviolate, I thought, silent, mysterious; inviting, yet, in a way not. Memories surged forth: my first love cutting it in half; painstakingly scooping out each reluctant piece of treasure. I didn’t want to go back.
Persephone didn’t want to go back. Then again, maybe she did, and it was her mother that held her captive. Demeter petitioned Zeus; fought hard against the hell she figured destined for her daughter. She almost won, half won, in fact. Six months in heaven; six below.
I didn’t want to go back. What good lay in it for me? Who would rightly choose a half life of darkness?
The ripe fruit sat still in my hand. It was cool to touch; smooth, unblemished. Hunger stabbed me. I wanted it; I wanted it all. The knife thrust downward, eight times. Glistening rubies shone bright, burning my eyes. Memories disintegrated as I spread open the peel. Cerise niblets fell to my plate with ease; no pain. I ate of it as ribbons of red juice ran down my chin.