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Alexandra Seiler

The Classicist's Lament

They sell pomegranate seeds at the supermarket
up the road. You bought some yesterday,
thrown into your cart along with
protein bars and dryer sheets and
paper towels. Back in your dorm room,
you place three seeds on the palm of your hand
and think that maybe
Persephone looked forward to those winter months-
after all, nobody wants to stay at home
forever.

And you know you are no Titan
but you wonder how Atlas did it,
the whole world on his shoulders,
when your spine aches from the weight of
your backpack and books
and thoughts of your life, ahead.

Your curses are borrowed
from Catullus nowadays;
it packs a little more punch
in Latin, so specific, so precise.
You bite your tongue to keep from offering them
as a response to everyone who tells you,
well, that's nice, but what are you
going to do with that degree?
Pedicabo ego vos,
indeed.

You learned a long time ago
that the light from stars is old;
maybe thousands of years
and millions of miles away.

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