When I open the trash chute, breathing through my mouth, there are a dozen pomegranate seeds glistening inside, all in a row, leading down into the basement, the hell of my Hell’s Kitchen apartment building. I couldn’t imagine any of the Rosemary’s Baby extras on my floor doing such a poetic thing on purpose. But then again, who am I to judge the interior lives of people who have been living here longer than I’ve been living? I toss in my trash, then I fantasize about jumping in, too, the Persephone of 54th Street, descending to the underworld, where I would find You. We’d been apart for a full season; I had resisted, resisted, the pull and the gravity of You. I believe You’d be the king of the underworld, or maybe You’d just be chained to the devil, and I’d be chained there, too, as if we were our own special tarot card. I had thrown You away for good, I thought, many seasons earlier, but I slide down the chute all too eagerly anyway, smelling old eggs and rotten apples, but drugged on the memory of your scent, and that overtakes even durian, even the corpse flower in terms of total overwhelm. I hit the bottom with a wet thud, and I still don’t know, after all, if I can stay in the underworld again, with You. So I reach up and out of the trash, my nose clogged with kitty litter and orange peels in my hair – one day, would I have to throw away myself for good, when it got unbearable to even think about you? Could I slice the memory of You out of me as smoothly as I debone a fish, the bones clinking down into the basement trash? Can I keep You down there at the bottom of the trash chute while I live a carefree life, happy and above ground? Or will I forever be bloodying my teeth with pomegranates, unable to stay away from the hell I know (You)?