No need for air, for light,

just tilt your head backwards

and allow the past

to roll down your face.

Hold on to that.

 

Recollections:

Persephone shifted her weight

in time to the point

she was making.

She never stood erect-

she was always making a point.

 

Even with a potato peeler

there was an air

of menace-

she would mix it 

in with the mash.

 

Her threats had the promise

of unwanted mail.

Of brown envelopes.

The sort that fall when

any-news-is-not-good-news arrive.

 

She would direct the traffic

of your bumper-to-bumper

thoughts: your arguments ushered

down 'men-at-work' streets

your beliefs along 'unadopted' alleys.

 

Her laugh when accompanied

with that gentle shake of head

was more contagian than contageous.

She was fond of staring -

unobserved-

through open doorways.

 

Epilouge:

Then backwards glancing

her laugh would fill 

that empty space

and with our meeting

eyes adore my approach.