The golden, glowing egg has dropped
Beneath the bold horizon.
And a hundred declarations lay
Unsaid amid the silence.
We could hold hands beneath the stars
Chasing cars, tracing
The outlines of one another’s fingers
A touch that lingers,
Long after the light of dawn.
We could do this, but for one condition:
You’re nothing but an apparition.
The ghostly hand that rests in mine
Remains impalpable as air
And those amorous meditations
From love’s list of expectations
Remain distant from my cares.
No, the loving hand in mine is not
Of romantic contemplations.
Indeed, I’m not a girl of such mental conversations.
In such a world of idiotic memes
And shiny, cold, lifeless machines
I refuse to match time’s easy accommodations.
I wish they’d all just come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.
But no, we don’t talk of such things,
Instead remaining on topic with the earthly means
Of everyday life.
Nor, as we talk and we eat,
Do we think of those we do not meet;
Those who, with hungry stomachs and hungry eyes
would devour us with a wink.
We ignore our ties
To the people far beyond our known horizon
Who, as far as we know don’t exist
Beyond the cliff our consciousness lies in.
So here we are,
Talking and eating at our leisure
All the while, they suffer from a fever
Of literal or of figurative origin.
We are falling,
Plunging down a rabbit hole.
I’m Persephone, an innocent girl
Dragged below ground to the underworld.
I have indeed been in those fiery depths,
Seen stomachs bloated with negligence,
Seen houses of corrugated tin
Yes, I have been
In the depths of Tartarus.
Seen the men who, pushing impossible boulders
End up with that very rock back on their shoulders.
As miles stretch on under the relentless sun,
Shade reduced to a single, leafless tree.
Yet I’ve returned, free
From all those sufferings .
And I come back to our table
Willing and able
Seeing apparitions dance before me
As we talk and we eat,
And again to our homes we retreat,
As if, while we fluff our
Pillows at night there don’t
Exist those who would do anything
To have that
Pillow, maybe that
Small bit of
Left at the restaurant
In an attempt to watch your figure.
How do you figure
We would sleep at night
Fluffing our pillows,
Seeing these phantom faces of fire?
And although there are many miles to go
I do sleep.
Although we cannot be Narcosis flowers
Staring at our own reflections for hours,
Although we cannot remain
Living lives void of compassionate refrain,
We still shall live.
For, I have seen the people of those fiery depths.
But I lied, their eyes don’t flame with hunger
—they burn with life.
Maybe those who live in Tartarus
Have Elysium hearts,
And it is ours that lay in need
So no, the hand that now I hold
Is not the hand of a lover.
My hand lies in the earthen grasp
Of the world, and our earth mother.