Pomegranate
absent-mindedly, my fingers
fell upon the seeds and soothed
my dry lips with their juice:
so persephone's fevered fruit pitched
me into a half-life of love burning
like hell, in the throat of the earth—
stone and liquid steel
—where my notes echoed and stuck
to half-closed lids and hollow ribs aching
with every splintering breath. my lungs longed
for something more than cigarette smoke to
hold a song, hold them up from collapse and
let me sip on summer's nectar but i
am queen of the dead
dreams that were lost with
wandering souls and the sounds
of those searching for them trapped
down here. sometimes in spring
with the sky stretching over my eyes i can
pretend i won't return to my
betrothed shadow but i know
till death do us part but for a moment
and i will steep in the dark of death,
alone again.