To Go Hungry, An Ode to Demeter

To say you don’t love us,
that we are not merited to gust in
the aromas of bustling cornucopias,
nor see you beneath your dark and temporal shrouds
to the magnificence beneath the mane of blonde, angel hair
O, Eukomos

No, to say that you when you join us under the frigid tempests
of winters past and permit us
to gaze upon the Gamelion moon in amorous harmony
while we gallop in Kotsarises and Pendozalis,
that you laugh with an everlasting hunger for malice and
consume our misfortunes mirthfully
with the Erysichtonian passion

We are forlorn but mistaken
for even as the soil rasps and coughs,
we hear the echoes of blackness;
the cries of Desponia within you resound
over the grumblings of our innards,
and we are disconcerted by the gleam of the trident
reflecting the sun off your back,
the licentious eyes that waft over you
like the torrential waves of the Aegean
and cause you to neigh in the shadows,

and now, though left on your mouth is the acrimonious tinge
of the sorrowful pomegranate seed,
scalded by your torches and
the solitude of Eleusis,
we feel the warmth return
and our lands sing once more
of a daughter’s love
and life’s transience.