Just as Persephone, she was seized against her will.
Fatally, and perhaps futilely the domestic schism
occurred at some point in time since the marriage.
No one had heard from her in months anyway.
Relatives and friends, they would all attempt to send their love in letters.
Sporadic phone conversations were disrupted by a terrific blockade.
He wrapped her body in an old mattress,
or maybe the exact mattress
they used to consummate their love and all that shit.
The man wrapped her up all snug-like secured with
rope and various Boy Scout type knots.
Sweeping her off feet, into demonic chariot,
vaguely flying or driving, not quite floating or existing still.
I believe she only ever got to exist in those
blissful moments before the storm. The meadows were calm,
the pool was nice. The quarry led them to Styx. An abandoned quarry,
a fate sealed unforeseen, a mysterious deity
brought them all to Hades. His realm.
Sinking all the way down, as far as the depth-less ground could manage
to push off the barrier between this realm and that.
It became well known, the rape of a goddess’ daughter.
The sudden disconnection and disappearance of
a relative’s sister, someone’s daughter
does not go without notice. Ceres found
the scarf of her Persephone, left behind during the rapid seizure.
The whereabouts of her sweet sapling
seemed as clear as the spring where she had found the venerable keepsake.
She had been kidnapped. Stolen! For sure! Eureka!
Ceres was highly pissed.
So very highly pissed she hastily decided that these rabid
somewhat feral mortal beings did not deserve
the grain she so selflessly provided, those ungrateful twerps
Ceres had catered to unconditionally for far too long.
She single-handedly destroyed agricultural life for them
breaking all plows turning the soil upside down,
taking life away from their efforts.
Just as rash Hades was reprimanded,
the mortal got his.
Persephone’s mother searched the endless grounds of
ancient land in pursuit of the dear child.
My great-grandmother grew concerned.
The family was concerned. They wrote.
When they would call for her, he would manifest tales-
her going off to Chicago or Virginia to visit friends.
Suspicion grew, but the distant between Toledo and Marion
was much greater in those days.
The man forged letters in her hand writing to disguise
this elaborate journey he had gone through, for what?
Karma speaks with treats upon its tongue,
the mortal got his own tongue blabbing
boozed in a bar and was found out. The body too.
Shit, people are fucked up. People take after gods.
Gods are fucked up. Shit.