She wants to be called Persephone. She may change her mind later, but for now, and for quite a while, she has felt herself a Persephone. She has a pocketful of pomegranate seeds.
Moving with my shadow
is like pulling on
a skintight soft leather catsuit,
and suddenly I can see in the dark,
and leap to and from high places,
and fall on my feet.
It is a slow process learning
to move together, become together,
so no one would think
that something is off,
that I am not myself, gone mad,
or worse, that I have changed.
(I found that people, in general,
find it inconvenient when people
they have pegged and labelled,
wiggle out of their categories
and dare to refuse to play old roles,
or dare to make unexpected choices.)
It’s a give-and-take, between
my shadow and myself, we
take turns taking charge, although
we know we should, eventually,
take charge together, as one,
because we are one.
So the catsuit is payne’s gray,
not black, and it comes with
lace cuffs to distract from the claws,
and a shimmery flowing skirt
that pools around me when I sit,
softens the danger of these high boots.
The mask is pretty, handpainted,
a compromise of dark and light,
disguising hungry stares and dagger looks.
Nine lives beat in my heart, one is mine.
Eight are hers, multiplied to infinity.
(She holds most of the cards, really.)
And now she holds them out to me,
without conditions, without reservations,
only relieved that I let her out, finally.
What deep dark eyes she has,
what sharp tongue she has,
what quick strong hands she has...
the better to watch and see with,
the better to speak the truth,
the better to claim what is mine.
We filled in each other’s blanks,
and she said, let us retell the Stories,
once again upon a time.