Three days and sixty-four miles from now, the pomegranate
blossom I picked from the branch and nested today in the vent
above my dash will be shades darker nearly garnet, wilted
in the dry AC air and windshield sun. The petals, cradled
in my palm as I enter your house, will flutter, crisp as garlic
skin to the floor, as I carry them to the trash can.
You know Persephone ate six, only six. Can
you imagine, six months in hell for eating a bit of pomegranate?
I know meanings cluster around the myth like the cloves of garlic
around their stem. Some professor would say that no event
is free from ancient assignations, from our first cradled
coo to our last utterance, that every triumph, every love must wilt,
scorched by collective memory. I want to pluck the wilted
brutal fruit of myth off the vine, crush it with the cant
of differance, create a new possibility for the way you cradle
me in your arms. Since you’ve never had one, I’ll bring a pomegranate,
split it open and feed you each excavated seed, re-invent
the role, wash your sheets, fix you tuna salad with marjoram and garlic.
I’d rather count out your pills, zinc, C and garlic
even consider magic and Crowley’s maxim, “Do what thou wilt”
than sit in class listening to another academe vent
his middle-aged frustrations in a lecture, cannily
designed to fool even himself, about P’s pomegranate
or the cost of civilization which Athena cradled
in her bargain with the Euminides; that a cradle
bears anything other than the dusty, garlic
skinned flower of death. The juice of pomegranates
is made to make grenadine. I never will
know how to stomach the over-sweet stuff. I can
grow scarlet hibiscus in pots and listen to you vent
about the job you haven’t got, though not prevent
predictable squabbles over money. We may cradle
our roles within our culture’s embrace, but if I can,
I’ll kiss you post-gym and sweaty, taste your garlic
breath. Emerging is hot work and we might wilt
like the scarlet blossom I’m bringing, forbearing pomegranates.
In any event, there is no telling what offspring, garlic-skinned,
tender, and bitter is cradled, in danger of wilting
in our canny myth-making. For now I bear the flower, not the fruit of the pomegranate.
blossom I picked from the branch and nested today in the vent
above my dash will be shades darker nearly garnet, wilted
in the dry AC air and windshield sun. The petals, cradled
in my palm as I enter your house, will flutter, crisp as garlic
skin to the floor, as I carry them to the trash can.
You know Persephone ate six, only six. Can
you imagine, six months in hell for eating a bit of pomegranate?
I know meanings cluster around the myth like the cloves of garlic
around their stem. Some professor would say that no event
is free from ancient assignations, from our first cradled
coo to our last utterance, that every triumph, every love must wilt,
scorched by collective memory. I want to pluck the wilted
brutal fruit of myth off the vine, crush it with the cant
of differance, create a new possibility for the way you cradle
me in your arms. Since you’ve never had one, I’ll bring a pomegranate,
split it open and feed you each excavated seed, re-invent
the role, wash your sheets, fix you tuna salad with marjoram and garlic.
I’d rather count out your pills, zinc, C and garlic
even consider magic and Crowley’s maxim, “Do what thou wilt”
than sit in class listening to another academe vent
his middle-aged frustrations in a lecture, cannily
designed to fool even himself, about P’s pomegranate
or the cost of civilization which Athena cradled
in her bargain with the Euminides; that a cradle
bears anything other than the dusty, garlic
skinned flower of death. The juice of pomegranates
is made to make grenadine. I never will
know how to stomach the over-sweet stuff. I can
grow scarlet hibiscus in pots and listen to you vent
about the job you haven’t got, though not prevent
predictable squabbles over money. We may cradle
our roles within our culture’s embrace, but if I can,
I’ll kiss you post-gym and sweaty, taste your garlic
breath. Emerging is hot work and we might wilt
like the scarlet blossom I’m bringing, forbearing pomegranates.
In any event, there is no telling what offspring, garlic-skinned,
tender, and bitter is cradled, in danger of wilting
in our canny myth-making. For now I bear the flower, not the fruit of the pomegranate.
Written during college, a professor thought this was too precious. I've always rather liked most of it. Looking at it again to see what works and what doesn't. Thanks for comments. Ro
