persephone

i.
her lips were a pair wasp wings
parted like pages of old books;
opened to let her voice pencil
constellations into the heaven.

she seemed to tip east and west
with earth, bending for winter,
hiding from the daylight while
she stooped to pray and dress.

she held a pomegranate in her
hands; a gift of life for mortals
if they’d only find her starlight.

wheat sheaves played her skin,
spiders danced inside her song
and her delicate lisp sketched
a portrait of god against moon




ii.
but when september came
for the fourteenth time
she saw me as a naked tree,
stripped,
still lingering on the hilltop;
trembling raw meat,
like a baby
dying in the weather.


she tried
to gather me under
her wings -
and i would not.



persephone wept.






iii.
then i met her in the hallway- an ugly
halfway place- and to be honest
she looked just the same
as any other sydney girl
but by the way she held her tongue
i knew she’d be changing the world.

and she held a pomegranate, too.
it sat in the small of her hands
like a planet; ravishingly round.





                            iv.

                            split-

                            hungry, hungry, 
                            i held her hands
                            not letting go

                              (forgive me, for i know not what i do)
 
    thrust
                            and plunge

(that worldpool had me hypnotised)

                            segments
                            tear-
                            seeds burst
                            in my mouth.

                            your sweet red fruit-
                            such a dangerous
                            dream ....
                               


v.

i awoke to find my hands still inside her, cold as fish on a friday.
my alarm clock was crying out for me. six-thirty. i had to get to work, and i had so much mess to clean up here, too. i prayed for time to stop because everything had managed to change in my last three hours of darkness, but what can you do? the world doesn’t stop spinning.
not just for one person.

it's just the name her father gave her, i justified, she's not really persephone.

i swung my legs over the edge of the bed.
red, red, red. the sheets reeked with guilt.
she didn’t move; her skin was a horrible mask.
i needed a shower.


my footsteps were lead. the blinds were still drawn. the world still slept.

i shivered as i watched the water leap from the shower head, a million drops of blatant suicide, plunging in despair. i began to wonder if these wet crystals really did want to die young, but then i realised they only wanted to avoid me. they were recoiling in disgust. they wouldn’t touch me.
i grabbed a towel and i tried to wipe it all away, but it clung to me. drenched. stained. it was everywhere.

how would i hide it? it was written all over my skin. i prayed for time to stop, but what can you do? sometimes there’s no way out, sometimes you can’t go numb. sometimes it haunts you forever. sometimes you just become it.


 
god was probably expecting her home-

how long til he’d ring the police?







vi.
they came. i knew they would come.
they took me away, like i knew they would.
i lost the job, the house, the blood,
but time lent me fleeting sanity.
(again)


it happens every time,


just the same for every girl



and they don’t keep me forever.








vii.

on the third day
god raised
her up again

and on the
seventh day
i escaped.









.