Persephone’s Seeds
If I were handed a pomegranate
How many seeds would I devour?
How many months of the year
Would I choose to stay in Hades’ bower
Disrupting the dead
With my songs, my flowers, my springing step?
Or would I, by my natural will,
Command them to stay whole within my stomach
In case my judgement had been poor;
In case this queendom’s role was too hard to fill
And my longing for the light grew to an unbearable ache…
So I could spit them out from my belly’s store
Red and shining still.
Persephone –
What was your stance on constancy?
How deep-rooted your perseverance
In growing in the greenhouses of the dead?
I hear you. “Their souls are beautiful.”
You said.
But their unconsummated longing –
Is it not cacophony?
