Persephone
— Megan Denton Ray
Dear goldenrod stow-away, dear rise
and shine: this morning my skylights pulse
with summer. I have thought of you splashing back
into the shut-slow April—you digging up
a square foot of soil for six pomegranates
and a maidenhair fern. How in a dream
I carried you milk in a glass. How when we knelt
to prune the roses we giggled at the prospect
of playing God. How you looked like a burnt stone
shifting in the night. How—not wanting to hurry
the feast—I rolled raspberry seeds between my tongue
and teeth. Dear psychomotor, blazing star, astilbe queen: See,
I dreamed I was your wild gasoline skipper,
gumshoe Christ. The sour cherry wept in its bud, held its breath,
sat tight—you know, the way a sour cherry
can only pollinate another sour cherry
and so on. The way wild things stay wild. Of course
you filled my mouth with spice cake, then the smallest
Bartlett pear. A bee with pollen on its pants. A root: birth-blue.
There’s a story to be told about us—how I held up the quilt
and you slid under. How we found the lantern-lit forest, speckled
with begonias and cedar chests. How we made a home
full of flowers and named it Prosperina. How when I left you,
I hid seeds in your hair so you wouldn’t forget: plant the barley.
Read more from Issue No. 22 or share on Twitter.