explosion.
You were walking down the street
going to work, or someplace else,
I wouldn’t know.
I was grocery shopping.
I stopped in the middle of the fruit aisle
as you walked by.
I tried to catch a glimpse of you but you
seemed in a rush.
I ran out,
followed you like the insane woman
you said I was. I hadn’t noticed the
pomegranate I was still holding,
and my tight grasp had
half-smashed it. Its juice was rolling down my forearm,
I did look unstable I’ll admit.
You were almost running I noticed,
was I so scary? Had you even noticed me?
I shouted your name but I never was good at screaming,
and my squeaky voice didn’t
reach your ears.
I considered my options,
you were about to disappear in the crowd
and I wanted to know where
your feet were leading.
I threw the pomegranate
— I hadn’t paid for it —
and watched it explode on your white shirt.
You turned around,
cheeks as red as the fruit,
eyes wide like I was some monster,
and I figured out that I’d become
your Hades.
— Elisabeth D.
(Elisabeth D. is a French writer and poet who learned to love the world through art. She hopes to become an editor after graduating, and dreams of becoming a published author.)
Published in By the Beach | Issue 1: Pomegranate