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Poem - Persephone 3

by Marie Howe

My mother knows all about the under-dark.
She needn’t have pretended to be appalled.
The seed must break open and rise;
put too deep the rot sets in.

My mother is a god; she wanted to spare me.
But my nature is nature.
Like everything alive I was meant to be split open,
to blossom, to be sucked, to be eaten,
to lean, to bend, to wither,
to die and die and die and die until I died.

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