Persephone

M. D. Kwak

After I crossed the Styx to the land down under, your hands

of dirt and dust took me in. You caressed me with the kiss

of your blue and white lips. Shielded me with your red fingertips

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The Baptism is always first: ice-cold. Then it was your

warm bosom that bathed me with crimson fires

and salty waters. You dressed me, fed me, gave me

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a new name and tongue. Gifted me a new face

Not mine but yours. The face of tyrannical, true blue

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When I was six, a raise of your finger and the steely calm

of your voice incited the fervour of madmen infused

 with the dogma of politics; gleaming rubies of Hades’ Pride

The howls, “We will decide who comes to this country!”

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Then at twelve, you shed your old face for a new

one – different but the same. You thanked me for

what I provided and held out your open hand. Flashed

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a consoling smile –

filled, with rotting flesh among rows of blackening teeth

Promised me that you were different now; changed

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I am your evil cherub

The thorn in your homely rosebush

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O’ Persephone, Queen of this cruel underworld!

  My heart will always be ablaze for I love you.