Painting by Justine Formetelli https://www.pinterest.com/pin/bonjour-persephone-painting-by-justine-formentelli–572449802626218242/
Fire like splintered
thought, like lightning
and thunder,
and afterwards their work
complete,
and all that was matter and form
imprisoned, lost.
But not you, mother,
of wheat and bitterness,
obdurate old bride.
Eros-favored snow geese
in the grey winter-dawn,
in the hot-noon,
you grew harsh with hunger
until I your daughter, split-forth,
married off,
and you felt rebuffed
that your property-progeny
slipped away, slipped
into that interim
masquerading as heaven
where daemon-Pluto
whispered, and hell’s circle
widened like a flower
opening petal by petal,
each petal separate
until I had no memory
of the grand scale
of your affection,
and the ruby flames
echoed, and your hearth-stones
shattered, stones
we bedded down
next to, where you held me
inclining your head
slightly, and your face
a green-bough bending low;
half-open eyes, sea-blue;
you with gold-wrought locks,
wild-bee swirling
over the uncut grass
and slow rivulets
amid the funeral cypresses.
Mother-paragon, we are
opposites, don’t you hear my voice
remorseless?
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