Classics class, and my teacher
has proudly brought in pomegranates.
“One between four” he announces,
shrugging off his jacket
to watch the ensuing carnage. I take mine eagerly,
feel its smoothness fill my palm.
I am too excited. My head is full of Persephone;
I am sure that if I eat too many
my life will be forfeit to Hades. This does not stop me.

Back to the desk
and the fruit is hastily dissected, its heart eaten
tentatively by others,
greedily by me. I am swallowing
the stuff of myth- seven years old
and clutching an Enid Blyton book,
watching Demeter mourn,
the earth shrivel at her feet.
While others sigh and give up,
shaking scarlet drops from their fingers,
declaring they don’t think much
of the taste- I am ripping and tearing
with juice-stained hands.

I never did fit in.