"Even now, I cannot lose the memory of scent.
It leads me to pomegranates, halved, lying on a table,
the globes of puckered skin are red as my own lips.
This is the season of abduction — fruit pulled
from branches and vines. The dense perfumes
of fresh jams and pies slice the slow dawn.
The maples and oaks turn thin and gray
with their testimony of bruised and bloodied leaves.
Drawn to the sanguine, tart sweet, ripe aroma,
hundreds of lusting eyes, I touch the dark
texture and remember my love’s rough hands,
the frantic tear and pull of desire.
I hand my money to the farm boy, grab
the pomegranate —no, I don’t need a bag—
and rush away to home. Pulling it apart,
the ruby juice bleeding out on my fingers and dress,
I close my lips around the flesh
and dream of the man my husband used to be."
J.P. Dancing Bear, “Persephone at the Farmer’s Market” (via atomiclanterns)