This is the part in the year when Demeter is angry.
TW: Reference to Child loss
They have salvaged my skin but not my memory.
Her echo ripples through my body like breath.
The world is as white as a blind eye.
They beg for me to stop crying and bring the flowers back,
But don’t they see?
There is nothing.
I plow through the slabs of cold earth, the snow, the ice, I dig and dig, raking my fingers through brittle roots and soft earth to speak to her,
screaming through the dust to wake her up and come to me.
They pluck at the red that beads through the seams of land,
picking out the pomegranate seeds as if they do not want me to see,
patching their growth with white thread,
brushing through my hair, as the string flashes like lightning, striking quick to keep the seeds from showing.
Zeus, you promised me that she would be returned,
but my arms, my arms they ache from holding
your lies.
“I am so sorry, she’s gone.”
She is with him. She’s with him, where nothing grows but ghosts.
The thread is drawn tight, coursing through my skin, winking silver under the light.
My fingernails are bruised underneath.
They are washing the red out of my hands as I tune in.
Maybe they will leave a flower for me. There are so many bouquets in the room. What is one more peony?
Snow drifts blush the window.
I feel their shadow cool my skin as they pass my room.
The church bells chime.
My stomach stings.
I am tucked under white covers, pinned by the question that is why,
lying in wake of Almost.
Persephone, please hug your mom when you see her.