I remember the days when a broken glass was just a broken glass, a poem was just a poem, a wrist was just a wrist — and not a headstone for sunlights, melting; flowers, wilting; mirrors, breaking.
Now, it shows half summer smiles, half dead and sunken cheeks — an oddity that is Persephone, unhinged and descending into darkness and maybe one day, I'll feel the haunted murmurs beneath my feet and not in my head — not in the poems I cannot write again, Now, the mirror shows my aching — it shows my waiting for death to show up at the doorstep as though it was an estranged husband finally coming home.
Slip your grief into Demeter's hands — lithe. Graceful, and drenched in sunlight.
I remember back when this was an abduction and not a quiet, slow dance with death.
Slip your sighs, carefully now, into Demeter's forsaken hands —