Pomegranates

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I would tempt you with pomegranates. Would you allow this?
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This is a house with so many rooms. More, it seems, that can be measured from the gardens, from the downstairs. There are hidden doors and tricks of the heart. This room is not like the others. I don't believe this is where you sleep, though you assure me it is. I want to smell your skin but I cannot. It is nowhere in this room. This is another space waiting for something to happen. I am sitting on the bed and you are standing by the window. The curtains are open. I want to take in the back of your neck through all five senses.

So many rooms. So many.

Do you know the myth of Persephone?

No.

The god of the underworld tempted her with pomegranates. I would tempt you with pomegranates. Would you allow this?

What is for me to allow? You want what you want. You'll have what you want.

He stole her from the aboveworld. He took her down.

And held her there with pomegranates?

Yes.

This is the disrobing ritual: my shoes slipped off, lined up beside one another. Your shoes. Garters unfastened. Stockings removed. The linen jacket draped over a hanger. The waistcoat. The pants. My dress, the beautiful moonflower dress, collapsed into piles of meaningless satin, a careless collection of champagne sequins. It is nothing without my body to hold it. Without me it is less than the sum of its parts. It is a shell. I drape it over the back of a chair. I'm not ready to be naked but your desire whispers for skin. I take off all my jewelry. The disrobing ritual. We have never done this before.

There is a bowl of them. On the nightstand there beside the window. The bowl is alabaster, the fruits balanced inside with their gleaming red skins, like something painted. Waxed. In your hand, the fingers curled around the rim. Like a woman in blush, a woman in lipstick. I am unwound across the bed. I have unraveled myself, poured my flesh across the sheets, washed up beside the pillow. I am pressing my knees together. I am covering my nipples. I am looking at you through my hair. You are here. There is a fruit in your hand. You are naked with your well-groomed hair and your small neat fingers. You are beside me. The bed shifts and reality trembles in the tight space of a candle flame.

You planned this.

Yes.

Gentle, insistent. This is the application of your hand to my shoulder. The heel of your hand. The sinews know how you want them to fall but it is my mind that is hesitant. Perhaps my heart. To be so raw on this bed, open and on my back with the front of me laid open to your scrutiny and the test of your fingers, the smooth skin of this fruit. Its insistence. The pomegranate is heavy in the bowl of my stomach. Pale skin, moving with breath, rocking the round red fruit. Cradling it. The breath. The pulse at my navel. The weight of it, something for me to struggle against. I keep my hands on the bed. My toes toward the ceiling. I want to close my eyes but the lids won't fall. I am breathing through my nose. The eyelashes quiver.

You take the fruit. At the space where its skin is warmed by my skin you dig your thumbs into it, the cords in your forearms at attention.

Concentration. All the fury of lust lies in this gesture. The effort. The resistance. Your breath held back by teeth. I am watching you and all of your attention is given to this task. The furrow of your brow. The set of your chin. The first drip is startling. The second is a cool whisper sliding into the first. Your elbows straining. Soft low wet ripping and a long sigh. These sounds tear into me. There is a flood of juice, a spill of seeds. Tart tingling smell in the air. It spills down your hands, drips between your knuckles, stains them purple. It fills my navel and makes a puddle. This pomegranate is butchered. It bleeds. It dies at your lips.

And then comes something I do not expect: your skin. There is so much of it, a surfeit of pale skin and it is everywhere, acres of it falling down on me, soft and laced with individual hairs, each of them a burning filament, each of them claiming my skin for its own; your pliant weight, your skin. I gather myself and brace against it, pulling back, but you follow me down. There is no pulling away. I am awash in you. Your sticky hands on my face, holding me down, anchoring the part that trembles and wants to fly away. My choppy little breaths. Your breath in my breath. My wild racing heart a-sprawl beneath subdued flesh. Your lips are full of plump little seeds. You break a few of them between your teeth, drip the juice into my parted and quivering mouth. A quick blast of breath. I lick away the juice, try for more. Your lips glance mine. Uh. Uh. I'm blushing at my sounds, mouth open like a baby bird. Another drop hits, slides across my bottom lip. A long trembling sigh. I lick it up. Your tongue pushing mouth-hot seeds between my lips. I take them. I bite down. They explode between my back teeth.

I pick up a piece of the pomegranate, left forgotten and leaking into the sheets, and I take a bite out of it. The juice runs down my wrist. I lie back on the pillow, breath ripe and whistling through my nose, and I open my mouth. My lips soften around the seeds balanced on my teeth. I close my eyes and wait in the darkness and breathe, taking it in, letting it out. The air. The inside of this room opened to the night. I am measuring this moment with my nostrils, breaking it down into segments. Jasmine flowers unfold in the garden. The bloom is an inevitable thing. The scent of it. The display of pale petals, dictated by roots, temperature, and the advancing night. They do what they mean to do. I smell the ruthlessness. The fury. The determination of the flower to call to itself all that it could possibly need, the rain the moonlight the moths polishing it with long jointed legs, fanning it with luminescent wings, coaxing the life forward, making a tight curled seed. You take the seeds from my mouth. You take them one at a time. You lift them with your tongue, draw them in with soft suction. The muted sound of them crushed.

I burst into tears.

I'm sobbing and you put your palms on my face and rest your nose on my forehead and wait. Calm above all of this destruction. Your body is constructed of composure. Your eyes are closed and you are keeping slow time with your oxygen. I'm foundering, longing for your shoulders, taking hold of the slope of your neck. Clinging to dissemination.

My beseeching bones...oh cover the raw place in me, press yourself down into this gaping wound, steal my blood and hold it in your hands. Kiss the delicate loops of my entrails.

I am quivering, awash in salt. My nose is pressed into your nose. I have pulled your hair from grace. My life is distilled down to those sticky purple fingers on my cheeks, the immolating force of your breath.

Yes.

Yes.

Yes. This is beautiful, beautiful.

You come into me and I think about the shapes of words. I think about your tongue and the shapes of words.

I want you. I want you.

An imprint of time and place that lingers. Stripped down to bare fucking. If I could imitate them, own them, I could claim a part of your soul.

I can't do it.

You have taken me down.

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  • COMMENTS
3 Comments
AnonymousAnonymousover 10 years ago
Fantastic!!!!

I love this, it's in my top three favorites!

phantom4533phantom4533almost 14 years ago
Very nice

I agree. Extremely poetic. Can't wait to read more.

SilverstagSilverstagover 15 years ago
Beautifully written

Great imagery - very succulent - very erotic in a poetic sense. Outstanding first submission.

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