Pomegranate

Seven seeds spilled from my chest
like garnets. She ate each one, dainty
as a bird, juice staining her lips like
ambrosia. My pomegranate heart
cracked open in Persephone’s
finger-bones. I felt myself slip
into her core: a wet, earthy secret –
Eleusinian mystery, holiest of holies.
My wife feasted on me, picked me
clean of flesh, the fruit of asphodel.
I bound her with chains of love,
to the wintry underworld of my skin.
We cast stars to divine our fates,
crystal lattices in quartz caves.
All my bounty was hers –
all my ruby souls, the harvest
of Demeter’s daughter,
my Iron Queen – life of my
sword, rod of my wrath –
all my weapons at her feet.
Men say I am cold, but they
have not seen me helpless
at her breast, suckling at the
pollen of her marrow, feeding
her in turn. Consumed, I was
a sprout planted in her
darkness, licking her womb
with leaves of jade and spine,
thirsting after communion.
No rape, no abduction, just
two lovers like a vine,
curling up to eternity.

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