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  • Brooke Miller

persephone and the pomegranate

I should have never eaten the seeds.

Heavy in my hands,

I held the pomegranate

and tore apart its flesh,

the juice running through

the slots in my fingers,

tingling my veins,

as red dripped down my arms.

And now my heart.

You put the fruit there to deceive me.

I felt it tumble from my hands

and there you were,

ready to catch it

and pull me into the underworld.

How was I so naive to think that

you were anything more

than a hungry man

looking for a shiny, new fruit

to add to your garden?

Was that all I was to you?

One of six hundred

crimson seeds

in a pomegranate?

Now I am imprisoned because of your empty promises.

I am trapped.

You are nothing less than the god of Hell.

I was nothing more than

a satisfaction for your hunger

for attention

and desire.

I was never worth a shrub of fruit,

only a few bites

to keep me close.

A fruit never felt so rotten in my hands

until it bound me to you.

-did the pomegranate taste this sour, persephone?


Art by Trent Bangle


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