By Tracy Ryan
Another Persephone
There are too many.
Daughterly, you leave us,
still picking flowers,
descend not gingerly
but all at once
before we realise.
Darkness never knew
one so luminous,
flourishing, in each hand like
torch, like blossom, a poem –
our bond was through
poetry only and yet
I take this personally:
that Hades dares
to think he has you,
could quench that glow,
a voice no chthonic
silence could swallow.
Out of bleak earth, the bloom.
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