110/365: Persephone's Worth
Cheap laundromat detergent stuck to my hands,
which I worked out from between my fingers
with old underwear behind my back
while you wrote out an inscription in a used book
on top of a humming dryer.
It said This will carry you while you find your muse,
or Young poets never get old,
or something else you thought would move me,
and then you pulled a glass bottle of Orange Crush out of your satchel —
an anachronism, sure poison —
and a pomegranate,
which you picked open and fed to me with red fingers
as we walked down a hot street.
The sun gave slow sparks off the bottle
where we leaned into a brick wall,
and I knew I could never sleep with you.
Every pomegranate seed was a bolt
each word screwed tighter
with your retelling of Persephone's journey,
and I was worth more than six seeds.