Fiona Lu
Persephone
(There’s a violence to the way he sleeps.
The way every word turns to blunt edges
in his mouth.) When I first arrived, the city
bared its teeth, peeling the seasons from
my throat. There were clouds bleeding
wine & forests thick as marrow. A funeral
hearse in his driveway, though he told me I’ve
got better coffins to die in than his. Already,
I’ve forgotten the taste of his fingers on my
tongue, forgotten that I can never meet
the gaze of his sunken cheeks. So I dream
myself into the pomegranate in his fist: seeds
lining the insides of my breasts, his touch
cold on my skin. (Guts stare back at me
from the tiled floor, grinning. Something
about them reminds me of me.) Tonight,
I paint a portrait of my body as the only sin
grief cannot absolve. When I was a little girl
Mother told me my body was a temple.
& like a temple, I will not open my doors
for the unholy. (Later that night, I found him
at the kitchen sink. Baptizing his fingers
over
& over
& over again)
The way every word turns to blunt edges
in his mouth.) When I first arrived, the city
bared its teeth, peeling the seasons from
my throat. There were clouds bleeding
wine & forests thick as marrow. A funeral
hearse in his driveway, though he told me I’ve
got better coffins to die in than his. Already,
I’ve forgotten the taste of his fingers on my
tongue, forgotten that I can never meet
the gaze of his sunken cheeks. So I dream
myself into the pomegranate in his fist: seeds
lining the insides of my breasts, his touch
cold on my skin. (Guts stare back at me
from the tiled floor, grinning. Something
about them reminds me of me.) Tonight,
I paint a portrait of my body as the only sin
grief cannot absolve. When I was a little girl
Mother told me my body was a temple.
& like a temple, I will not open my doors
for the unholy. (Later that night, I found him
at the kitchen sink. Baptizing his fingers
over
& over
& over again)