The Pomegranate

    The only legend I have ever loved is

    the story of a daughter lost in hell.

    And found and rescued there.

    Love and blackmail¹ are the gist² of it.

    Ceres and Persephone the names.

    And the best thing about the legend is

    I can enter it anywhere.  And have.

    As a child in exile in

    a city of fogs and strange consonants³，

    I read it first and at first I was

    an exiled child in the crackling dusk of

    the underworld， the stars blighted⁴.  Later

    I walked out in a summer twilight⁵

    searching for my daughter at bed-time.

    When she came running I was ready

    to make any bargain to keep her.

    I carried her back past whitebeams

    and wasps⁶ and honey-scented buddleias.

    But I was Ceres then and I knew

    winter was in store for every leaf

    on every tree on that road.

    Was inescapable for each one we passed.

    And for me.

    It is winter

    and the stars are hidden.

    I climb the stairs and stand where I can see

    my child asleep beside her teen magazines，

    her can of Coke， her plate of uncut fruit.

    The pomegranate！  How did I forget it？

    She could have come home and been safe

    and ended the story and all

    our heart-broken searching but she reached

    out a hand and plucked a pomegranate.

    She put out her hand and pulled down

    the French sound for apple and

    the noise of stone and the proof

    that even in the place of death，

    at the heart of legend， in the midst

    of rocks full of unshed tears

    ready to be diamonds by the time

    the story was told， a child can be

    hungry.  I could warn her.  There is still a chance.

    The rain is cold.  The road is flint-coloured.

    The suburb has cars and cable television.

    The veiled stars are above ground.

    It is another world.  But what else

    can a mother give her daughter but such

    beautiful rifts⁷ in time？

    If I defer⁸ the grief I will diminish the gift.

    The legend will be hers as well as mine.

    She will enter it.  As I have.

    She will wake up.  She will hold

    the papery flushed skin in her hand.

    And to her lips.  I will say nothing.