Thorny briars kiss her
Ankles glazed in radiant ichor. Nutmeg and honey,
Clover and thyme, her mother’s nectar-sweet tears
Puddling on the peak of Olympus tug
On her tongue as the pomegranate bursts
Across her lips. A sleepy bliss
Lulled by warm pine
Whispers in her ear. She tips forward
Toward outstretched arms,
And howling breezes rustle
The olive branches, toss her
Back and take her adrift,
Plant her feet in chilling mountain
Soil that numbs her roots
As her leaves go limp. Propped upright,
A bean sprout,
Her weight shifts in her mother’s mud-bitten hands
Scooping her up
And weeping sage. “My dearest,
Persephone, it’s been so long.” Her face
Stays buried in her mother’s honey-combed curls, and,
For a moment,
Her breath, a faintly intoxicating wisp
Of citrus, becomes overwhelming
Cinnamon.
Inklings Literary Magazine 