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If Sappho Met Persephone

I love her more than I have poetry for.

Every time I see a pomegranate I want her
to crack open the red shell of my lips, lungs, legs,
and dig out seeds of promised fruit
that has not yet fallen to her feet,
to excavate the ventricles of my heart,
barbaric sweetness
leaving pink honeycomb hollow behind
for the ants to lap at.

I want to stay, want her to return to me like spring,
to keep her,
I recite a prayer of
I miss you, I love you, and I miss you,
please kiss me and
I wish you could kiss me now.
It’s the shuddering edge of July and it is winter without her.