Persephone’s Cleft Song
Some odd solace, this hole in the earth holds. Hours here I crouch, cleave, curve limbs among root, worm, mycelium. Graze my eyelashes in the loam at the lip. A hiding place, now. A sanctum. This cusp that I’ve raced and caught seams to cross through, that I’ve brushed past, bruised smooth by my passage – hands, leverage, hems – I now haunt. Eyes level with the lip, vision split between light and loam, I imagine myself limbless. Imagine myself severed of might. Mint, crocus, corn sprouting from my scalp.