Someone once said to me
you're not a poet
until you write about her.
I understand the allure.
The perfume of wildflowers,
the tang of pomegranate,
fingertips stained red
from the gem-like seeds.
The juxtaposition of--the marriage of--
Death and Life, Mr. and Mrs.
The story of an innocent maiden stolen
by the king of hell
...or is it the story of a willing captive,
a girl who craved more
darkness than springtime could offer?
No one seems quite able to decide.
I say the truth
will come only from Persephone's lips.
I ask
am I a poet yet?
As published in Alabama's Best Emerging Poets 2019 by Z Publishing
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