Glass Poetry Press

Volume Two Issue Three

Roberta Feins

Taking Leave

Each night your body rehearses lying still; each year your skin freezes deeper, rutted surface of plowed field. Though daily pomegranate stains crimson your lips, you won't return from underground. Over time worms will rot all that separates you from grit, your lips shape soil; enfold molecules of tree pollen, bitter dung of bats. Forget Persephone. She was … lucky, daughter of a goddess, desired. A rude matriarchy of ants has ousted the Lord of the Underworld. Wintering in nests of fermented gleanings, in summer, they send their daughters to gather petals from green meadows. Their myths are vast and faceted as their eyes.