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Persephone: Four Reflections
i.
In my mother's garden
are five-seeded apples. I often
ate of them when they waxed round
and red. They were not forbidden.
Even the snake was my friend. Sliding
her old self off like a blouse
outgrown, she showed me
nothing to fear. When my blood
began to flow, there was warm sand,
clear water, no pain. We walked
together, my mother, lady of all beasts,
and I, in summer's cool evening.
There were no boundaries; nowhere
beyond which I could not go.
My brother slept still in splotchy shadows,
breathing heavy, dreaming of God.
ii.
Dragged down, back
into the mother, but not
the one I have known:
this cavern, dark slayer,
swallows me like a cat
eating kittens. She looks
the other way while he pinions
my arms, legs, forces
open a crevice of pain I did not know
was part of me. Now
can I see in darkness;
my eyes, dilated too,
take in the riches
hidden in my mother's veins.
My husband makes
me eat: pushes my face
into pulpy meat: red blood,
a thousand seeds run down
my chin: I am transformed.
iii.
How can I
return to the world?
The light
will blind me.
Better stay
in shadow;
better rule as woman here
than submit as child above.
Did she know?
Does the earth
wither from her sorrow
or from her guilt?
Why did she not
cry out?
When I reached for
the narcissus, she
smiled at me.
If I return
it will be to reconcile, to tune
this dissonance.
iv.
Who are you,
woman whom I've called
mother?
Now that I
am back, you smile
again. You dry
your tears.
You would pull
me back
to your lap,
fix me in fire
like my brother.
Dear Lady,
look in the pool.
We are separate queens,
yet one. You too
have been marked, claimed,
darkened by desire.
You are the seed
of which I ate.
I am the raven-petalled
blossom you plucked.
Kathleen Dale (Click for bio.)