What some people call home

Eating a pomegranate is a serious commitment.
Demeter and the rest of her Olympian pals
missed that memorandum,
borne nowhere by Hermes’ winged sandals,
but then again, a pyschopomp’s job
is to steer souls where they belong.

All that wailing and gnashing of teeth,
the maternal winter, the drama.
The story always tells it like this:
Poor little Persephone, she had
no idea six seeds of a rubyfruit
would condemn her to be Hell’s new bride.

The fact is, we’ll never know.
I like to imagine the part where
poor little Persephone took the sharpest
knife she could find, dug deep into the pith,
sliced off the top and then dug in her thumbs.
She cracked it wide open, that garnet temptation,
grenadine staining her arms
before she plucked out those sweet-sour teeth,
flicked the bitter seed-cushions off her fingers,
and rolled the soft-hard fruit in her mouth
before biting down, the agrodolce
so different from the gentle-hay tickle of summer,
the mealy-mouthedness of pommes.

Plus, Hades wasn’t that bad of a guy,
even if his place was a little bit shady.
He kept his hands to himself,
not like most of her uncles/ fathers/ incestuous clan,
and he never appeared as anything but what he was,
kind of grim, kind of sad, the real deal.

Pomegranate’s a wintertime fruit,
at least in some climes.
Imagine the things a lady will do,
just to get away from what some people
call home.

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