The Pomegranates Under the Ground Will Blossom

I think Persephone would write a lot of poetry during the summer. After a long, glorious day of being elbow-deep in rich, damp earth, she would conjure poems in her mind as she bathed in the clear stream at night, moonlight filtering through the trees. And then when she’d go home — her above-ground home — for the night, she’d sit with her leather-bound journal that he gave her and spill her heart’s contents onto the crisp white paper. Her thoughts would be of her dark lover in her below-ground home as he waits for his queen’s return. 

I think Hades would spend his free time in the gardens she had created, cultivating the pomegranate trees that grow from the harsh, dark soil. They’re the only thing to grow in the Underworld, after all. His thoughts would never stray from her, and he would constantly wonder what she was doing at that moment. And then at night — if you could really call it that — he would sit in his chair by an open window with a drink of ambrosia in hand and wish his beloved was curled up in his lap, reading poetry from a worn page. 

I think that when the autumnal equinox inches closer day by day, the goddess of spring feels her heart race a little bit faster at the thought of her dark lord. Down below, the ruler of the Underworld paces back and forth, barking orders for things to be just right for his queen. And then the day comes, and he meets her at the banks of Styx as Charon carefully transports the queen to her home for the next six months. Her king greets his queen with a warm embrace, chaste kiss, and six ruby red pomegranate seeds. 

I think they’d spend the first few days timid, unsure. No matter how many years go by, the first few days together again are fragile, filled with soft looks and gentle touches. That is, until one (it’s normally her) kisses the other and they are soon lost in passions between the sheets, making up for lost time. (Though try as they might, they feel like they never can.) At dinner she drips with diamonds and emeralds and opals, a sight that he drinks in and commits to memory for the days when he will be lonely. In the pomegranate groves he laughs when he’s ankle-deep in dirt, hair unruly from helping. Her heart aches for when she will be lonely again above ground, and she tucks these moments away for those long days in the sun. But they both brush those thoughts aside: for now they are content, happy. 

And I think that when the spring equinox draws nearer, they both become a little more desperate. The king neglects his soul-judging duties, and the queen, her gardening. They dream of breaking free from this dreaded cycle, but what’s another six months when they have forever? And when the day comes for Persephone to step onto Charon’s shallow boat, she’s given another six ruby seeds, fresh from a newly broken pomegranate. Hades kisses her, once, twice, thrice, before helping her onto the boat and watching her sail away. They both already feel the ache of loneliness in their chests. 

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Originally penned February 21, 2021.