PERSEPHONE COMES CLEAN

It is my professional opinion that I should stop spending so much time with good fruit. Because my table is literally covered in jars of jam, sweet and spiced with rum, sealed and ready for the holidays. Tom says I'm out of control. I probably am.

Of course, jam and other desserts are what I turn to when I'm procrastinating, and I currently have about sixty papers and short stories to grade. Yowza.

So, tonight, as I wait for the batch of blackberry-rum to finish boiling on the stove, I think about some fruit I haven't tackled yet. Which leads me to the pomegranate, which reminds me of the tale of Persephone and Hades, of Demeter, of how the seasons came about. Maybe I'll find a pomegranate tomorrow at the farmer's market. For now, I'm logging off with tonight's poem from my scratch notebook, plus a nice little picture I found online.

PERSEPHONE COMES CLEAN

I told him I hated

pomegranates

because I didn't

think he knew

who I was.

One bite

and the seeds

slide out

like fish eggs.

He said

he hated them

too, for real,

and from his

many pockets

he produced one,

small

and tame looking,

a swan heart,

tossed it

eyeball-height

toward me

and I reached

without thinking.

My mother says

I can dislike

something

all I want but

ripe fruit

must be eaten.

He leaned against

a charred pillar,

watching me.

I remember

my hands grew hot

as I chewed,

his red mouth

opening

over a seed

as it slipped

down my chin.

...