november thirtieth time

Of Demeter (from a series I am working on based on the Persephone fable, from perspectives that are not that of Persephone.)

Chrysanthemums grew from her pores.
I clipped them with the teeth of faeries caught

by hand. She was a truth gaping out
of my chest; her laughs slashed the sky like a blade.

The elements cried and balked at her coming,
and the moon swayed accordingly.

There were seasons, then. They were like little
deaths that bore eloquent poems of dirt.

The fields turned and rolled as kites do.
They pulsed with sunflowers.


I built my daughter a chrysalis of my heart
because my bones could not wield us both.
I did not believe that she could breathe

alone. She will not have the chance.