You say it like it’s a good thing
that you will miss breaking into
the uncertain catacomb of inky gems,
bleeding its ancient blessing
onto your urban-chic kitchen counter,
this chalice of brilliant rubies, the one
you propose to beat with a wooden spoon,
shovel down like popcorn, when
everyone knows what even a paltry few
can do. We are talking about the fruit of life,
the food of the dead, the red suns
of winter waiting for Persephone
to lift her queenly head. May she haunt
your dreams. May you learn to slow
to the speed of the seasons.
Have you no sense of story, man?
But surely you must; there is hope in the well:
your 10-second demonstration
took 4 ½ minutes to tell.
Nov 13, 2013
One of 30 poems in 30 days