.............................................................. Persephone im-part-ed

photo by Edward Rinaldi

eye couldn't deny her, 
even if I tried 
for one thousand years 
non stop every day 
ritual to broken bones, 
she is imprinted 
upon me ...

and on occasion that I do
I remember that day 
I found her name tattooed 
on the inside of my lip ...

it was the last time 
I would 
with a purpose 
look into a mirror 
to see if I could 
know where 
she began 
and I ended ...

and though as many times before
as I had performed this surgery 
taking from my heart and mind 
to put humpty dumpty pie-ces 
back to gathered again ...

I always remain here 
a stasis somewhat 
in a stone vault cellar
with cracked veneer paneling 
at the end 
of any poem ...

this is where 
there is 
a quiet home 
where words 
will go 
when silence 
hangs its hat 
onto the afterglow 
of the last refrain 

when you're near 
enough to see me 
bleeding with you 
regardless 
of blade wielded
intention or not
there is no need 
to mention 
other vessels 
they all know 
who my queen is 
at least for six months 
out of the year 

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* for this poem 
Demeter was clothed 
in fashions by 
house always with odd questions 
or HAWOQ couture 
culturally rued cult designs 
of pearl halved year portals :

they specialize 
in portfolios 
of found passions 
framed by immaterial reigns 
they knew she wore 
a monk's attire mostly 
one unit tilled in horses 
king's men regard 
and plow shared 
loaded breast feast ...
a spill wagon 
beginning  
again 

EJR ©