A pomegranate on the tree has split, weeping
tears of blood to
ancient gods and stolen girls.
I wonder what Persephone thought when she devoured those six seeds.
Maiden of flowers
snatched from her mother’s twilit meadow,
become courtesan of Death.
They call me Queen here, Mother, I roll power about on my tongue - it is rich, luscious like black honey.
My garden grows jewel-like flowers, bruised blue roses - the colour of the sky when I saw Him.
I didn't want to hurt you, Mother,
so I return, bring spring in my wake, but your burning sunlight blinds me, I long for blue, for blood.
Even when I’m Above, with you,
in that dizzy, dozy daisy-strewn field, my roots run deep to Him.