What shall I tell you–
of time and seasons–
the repeating loops—
war, the gods, of seeds and ceded
lands and women, blooded, growing.
Past is future, future past—
the corn grows, the flowers never last,
but rise again from mud and ash.
On that day the robins trilled,
I watched a heron dip his wings into the wind,
and feather-touch the sea and sand,
I reached for the narcissus–and was pinned
beneath a demon, a monster, my husband, a king.
It’s said I ate and consented,
but what is consent, and what would you do?
I was the victim, a prisoner,
the seeds were red and tart, but sweeter
than his heart.
and don’t talk of wanton spring–
my womb is barren in the cold,
above the ground, I open,
and with my joy, the trees grow buds,
the crocus pops, and dawn-birds sing
as I remove his ring.
When I leave again, as I must,
my mother cries—and so do I.
Our salted tears sway the green
to withered grey,
while I, like dried husk, fall to the ground,
the bargain made, and ever thus,
the fragrant rose fades,
all too soon when placed at tombs—
in the sanctuary of time
past is future, future past,
circling round through many rooms.
Look now to the dead stars’ light,
think long about its glimmer trace,
a shimmer left within your blood,
and in your soul–
recall, I told you all.
For dVerse, where Sarah has asked us to write about Persephone.