Six Seeds of Seperation by Joy Fairbrother

Myths never finish the story.

Giddy Persephone,

dancing ambiguously

through Olympian meadows

right up to the edge of womanhood,

desired Hades tentatively

in her thoughtless, childish way.

Little girls ripen like corn

into goddesses,

and become summer heavy.

Swaying before Cerberus' master,

half begging, half afraid.

Demeter's wayward daughter

flirts with raw passion;

Persephone plays a breathless game,

captive and captivating,

nubile and mutable,

taunting the Lord of Hell

with her budding breasts,

nipples like blossoms,

caressed by carelessly woven daisy chains.

Onto her pomegranate stained mouth

Hades whispers love and

the grown up secrets she craves

but cannot fully comprehend.

Pendulous breasts heaving,

Demeter, left alone in her despair,

draws back fertility into her womb,

clinging to it like a stillborn child.

Fully ripened and oft harvested,

she understands too well

the double entendre

of plowing and planting,

the excruciating pleasure

of godflesh on godflesh.

Her primordial maternal heart

was not prepared

for the sudden adolescent fecundity,

the precocious bloom of rampant sexuality

on Persephone's roseblushed childcheeks.

Zeus spared her the sight

of braids taken down and unplaited

in preparation for the bridal bed

and hymen's exquisite sacrifice.

But whose loss of innocence

does she mourn

in a wild extravagant grief,

splashy as red poppies

in a verdant field?

Demeter regains only partial vibrancy

when Persephone returns as Spring,

never able to forget

the pomegranate seeds

which, once consumed,

became the six seeds of separation

between a goddess and a girl.

Myths always end

without telling you

the entire story.

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