Angela Stoner
Persephone's March
By mid-December I am comfortable with crying,
burrowed under pain,
soothed by its pressure.
In the dark, Hades’ features aren’t so ghastly.
I’m held by icy horrors,
almost like it.
Wounds have healed, calluses have formed.
Decay has started to smell sweet.
Death seems a friend.
Light, motion, heat, die by degrees.
The slowest drop falls quieter, colder, stiller.
Stops in frozen silence.
The yellowing and trumpeting outside seems vulgar.
Roots shift, cause chaos in these caves.
Scars burst and bleed.
I stumble from familiar dark, and blink
against my mother’s loving welcome.
I blister from her touch.
Page(s) 30
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