Persephone
what we had was our hands,
peeling back the wiry waxy flesh of pomegranates,
saving the fruit and seeds —
when we weren’t sneaking bites and glances —
for later.
it all became so habitual,
the way you already knew what had been at my center,
and showing as much care as you could,
to keep me in tact
from the intrusion of those fingers
as they trembled and ached
like the stick fort of children,
built on a hill
in that wind you love so much.
it is not sad (when i can believe that),
but painful, to watch
as all that love,
the pink, red, gushing juice on the table,
has made us into better people
but people apart,
as close now, as the shattered rinds
of those fruits long forgotten.
