Persephone
does not become a girl again
just because she goes home
to visit mother. She could do that,
if she wanted; she is a goddess,
powerful and wise, revered as well
as feared; she could like Hera
bathe and pronounce herself virgin,
say so and make it so. But no,
she goes back to Demeter’s house
as a woman, a wife, a mother,
her hair put up, her gown kirtled,
her husband’s gifts of jewellery
dangling from wrists and ears,
garnets and gold and ebony
shining on her still-plump breasts.
She will not let her mother forget
that they are equals now; that
every root of every plant on which
Demeter lays her blessing sinks
down into Persephone’s realm;
that the underground streams
and the subtle minerals in the soil
answer to her command, not
her mother’s. Not any more.
When her mother calls her “Kore”,
she does not answer; she has
other names now, Persephone,
Proserpina, the dreaded one.
She walks the spring fields
clothed in violet, crimson, black,
her bare feet pale against
the moist earth, her fair face
glowing like the moon
beneath the shining sun
or in the gentle rain,
and even now, kissed
by the god of the dead,
honored by furies, torn
by rape and childbirth
and healed with a scar,
even now, the flowers
spring up where she walks.
Beautiful words honouring Persephone’s transformation.
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