From Persephone

Mother,
My black roses thrive in
a palace made of ivory
and bone


                And Death

He has blossomed
in me from
the beginning
Our nights
are lust and scarlet
His ice eyes thaw

                Gold

He bites the red seeds
Off my skin
His hair smears

                Shadow

on my hips I grow thorns
In my skin, on the walls,
In his heart

His rattle for a heartbeat
Found its chasms between my
Wine-soaked thighs

He cries
I am his redemption
His tears are bloodstains
on the ground

We scorch the Earth’s core
            and leave it molten
            when we collide

He made me wings
With the bones
Of a hell-hound
for me to fly
Where I wished

                I flew to straight
                        to his throne

They lied to you,
Mother,
When they said
I let out cries
Like burnt sunflowers
When I descended into
the Inferno

When he came
to me,
I chained him to my
ankle with
the laurel wreaths

                so flowers and death
                         would interlace
            for all the days to come

I nurse his hurt
the way I watched you
tend to your fields.

But he can never heal
He is made of too much

                                           Death

for happiness
too little

                                            Death

for Disintegration
He falls everyday

                                       (he cannot seem to remember
                                                the shade of the sky
                                                no matter how hard he tries)

 

I raise him with my vines
and full, bursting lips
Every night

The mountains weep fire
                        when we
                        make love

He falls, every day,
to the grief
in his marrow.

He can never heal,

                and I will never leave

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