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 —

I remember how breaths
ended in mine.

// "Maybe Persephone chased her death."