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Persephone
Struggling
With carrying branches to dry for kindling,
Cursing
the seemingly extra long winter and those
who keep bringing it;
a shadow drifts over me like a primordial raven,
and a rush of unseen limbs streak past me.
Both alight before the barbed wire fence I keep meaning to repair
in the spring
in the summer
in the fall.
She turns her silhouette, robed in silver fur, towards me,
I cannot see her face.
Her white hand is on Cerberus
who has one brow furrowed, watching me.
One head is cocked, listening to the sharp whistle of wind
through withered boughs
the third is panting happily,
anticipating an unrestrained romp
through chaste snow.
I bend my knee in adoration
of Persephone.
A slight incline of the hooded cloak
acknowledges my presence
and my subservience;
I am what she once was
and will never be again.
She stretches out a pallid hand,
smooth and supple for a woman of 2000 years,
this Queen of the Underworld
who executes the curses men place
upon the souls of the dead.
In the cup of her hand
glows a red pomegranate
she no longer needs.
From beneath her hood
shine orbs of quartz crystal,
I see my reflection in them
and draw closer.
Cerebus lays at the feet of his Queen,
two heads stretched out on paws,
impassively watching my progress,
the third seeking my eyes, a low growl of warning
indicating that I know my place
as subject.
I reach out upturned palms in faith
and the hood inclines again
I close my eyes,
a furious flurry of shrieking wind
envelops me.
The fury subsides. I feel the warmth of the afternoon sun.
I open my eyes to snowdrops, crowding a carpet of green
and pregnant branches thrusting their limbs
towards the sky,
and in my hand
is a pomegranate.
Copyright ©
Lacey Jones
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