Persephone in Peak Season

“It’s all about being chained to the Earth.”

That’s what we say in line

when we thumb the workplace like a

nursing child; threading trysts that call us.

It’s about becoming a fawn;

An exposed life and shattered brow

flung into the open air before dawn

For banter

For bounty

For the American battle.

It’s about warm water ringing your ankles

and wrists, and a shoreline you never knew could

Love you.

When John the Baptist, and James Dean,

and Galileo rendezvous in receiving with

all your heart in hand baskets and

a tender resolve to tether you

to the stratosphere;

When cavorting the drive aisle fields

in picks, narcissus, and sulfur,

in search of fabled autonomy;

it’s about careening into captivity,

and the collision of corporate with

tendrilled Tartarus, our escape under the Earth.

And it’s about response, union,

restrained and between fixture margins;

The contained company of the Underworld,

and the side counters where you live.

It’s about unearthing the node;

Inside banter, never mind bounty

Inside the kinetic cadence of timed


About Keats, Trotsky, and Hades himself

imploring to be nourished;

The rupture, Descent; your

tender tutelage along the shores of Acheron.

It’s about becoming Queen;

When a fathers’ sway concedes to spring

in spite of all seasonal fatigue.

But we couldn’t know what the Earth wants to be

and neither would Science or Christianity.

Therefore, we can’t conceive of connection, yet

toilers, dearly, desire the reflection of another.

It’s about burrowing in lines, yearly.

Into fur

And logic

And network

And a time card.

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