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 the American battle.
It’s about warm water ringing your ankles
and wrists, and a shoreline you never knew could
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.
And a time card.