Is it the air Persephone breathes
When free from the caves -
It is, the woman says -
Is it the ivy eating away the ancient walls -
It is, the woman sighs -
Is it the cussed shadow you can’t shoo away
No matter how hard you clean in the corners -
It is, the woman replies -
Is it the gnarly old lady who sits in the room,
Best friend to the cobwebs, both declining to go -
It is, the woman agrees -
No need to spring clean:
Leading you astray by moon or by seed
Doesn’t work for the sky, he’s hungry for more -
So don’t ask if he deserves your eyes,
It’s not a tryst, just the hunt she dreamt up
When eyeing white books -
Not death, but nearby lights in suburbia -
Oh yes? And since when you’re an expert on light,
Dazzles, mood swings?
You, a soul?
Ask Odysseus for tips,
He might oblige
If you say yes to his womb -
That’s what she hisses, no waste of words,
So keen on fraying fabrics or plots
She just drops the ivy and the air,
The cobwebs, the shadows, the ladies,
She even forgets all her aliases -
Depression when rushing to a cuppa or a drop.
