It has taken time,
but I have made the story mine:
how beautiful the dark,
how easy my crown.
How she would not let me be,
how she never looked
at my face.

What they don’t say is that I found
that pomegranate and ate all the seeds myself.
The thought of being up there forever
in that heat, the hard light–
the tangle of vine and blade–
and Mother.

Poor Mother.
you know the tale–
how she searched,
how she withheld
the Spring.
She always withheld
when she didn’t get her way.

She insisted the world was hers–
how the worms worked,
olives, the corn.
And always she sang the same refrain:
how she had to manage
every blossom, every grain.
How the sun and sea betrayed.

I missed her for awhile, but–
and this the stories do not tell–
I love my husband.
When he came roaring
up through the earth, driving
those lusty horses, I wanted
him and when he asked me,
I said yes.

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