(Inspired by the sculpture of “The Rape of Persephone” by Bernini, in the Villa Borghese, Rome, Italy)
Susan A. Katz
You could not know how much
less than wondrous would be
the substance of you illusion
as you gazed at the river
fidgeting among the reeds, you could
not name the longing or begin
to place a face on desire too pure
for shape, it clung
to your mind like the fragrance
of flowers, hours lay
strewn like petals
at your feet, browning
blades of grass thrummed
through your fingertips
as you waited in your garden
of eternal spring to learn
how truth would taste
on your tongue.
It was too soon to know
what you would spend eternity
learning to forget, all that had gone
before would hang like the moon
in a dark sky, too cold
for comfort, terror
began whole, overripe, it seared
your flesh, turning it
to ash, your pores leaking
sweat, your hand boning
into fists, your heart beating
always to rhythms of unhurried
time, flailed against the hindrance
of your ribs breaking beneath
his bilious grip, daughter
of dreams and gods, the wind
carried your screams till they tamed
to a mere whispering
amongst the leaves.
Lifted to be launched upon
his charging steeds, their iron-colored
reins let loose to drag
grappling your side
and thigh, his laughter slicing thin
vanity’s skin, would you
if heritage allowed it, have prayed
to die?
And as the River Cyane bowed
to Pluto’s passion and halved itself
to swallow you whole, did you
yet know the queenly title your few
bright drops of virgin’s blood
would buy?
Though legend tells us gods
must never cry, your heart
unlocked the prison of your grief
and gave you leave to weep, who look
at you stiff in stone knows fear and sinks
to troubled sleep at night, drowning
in the river of you one white tear.