The Pomegranate

I ate a pomegranate the other day. I didn’t want to eat it, didn’t want to look at it. Just got so damn tired of seeing it in the fridge. Round, red, lush as a cherry; lascivious as the first apple—it lured me in as the sirens of lore.

I held it in my hand, feeling its firm outer shell. 

Inviolate.
Inviting.
Memories. 
My first love
scooping reluctant pieces 
of treasure. 

I didn’t want to go back.

Persephone didn’t want to go back. Demeter fought hard against the hell destined for her daughter. She almost won, half won: Six months in heaven, six below. 

The question, of course, is where lies bliss?

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. Cool to touch, smooth, unblemished. Hunger stabbed me, as the knife thrust downward. Glistening rubies shone bright, burning my eyes as ribbons of red ran down my chin. 

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