Persephone
Katie Pagano
In the epiphany of sordid dreams, I ask the void before me—
is it you who persists in the chill of this night
and plants in frost the thought of us? Where ground is frozen,
bared to a twisted tree, a botanical union tumultuous but thriving,
consummated by the dribble of ruby-red seeds onto tongues—
as our bodies are unburdened and subdued
by the fruit that drips and bleeds.
You seek to lull me, I know, so we can taste the flavor of our future,
so you can fill this all-consuming space and curve against
the expanse of me – but the contour of my lip
that you persist to mimic closes down
on your darkened fingertip to bite through the fear of you,
to swallow whole a forever-lasting offering.
Does it make me master now?
Even though, I know, our ribboned-fastings cannot be undone—
and I alone wake in the aftermath, a brightened spring
where I sharpen the teeth of my need
and wait until the winter of our next meet.