Demeter, as the goddess of all things growing,
had a tool to force the god the underworld's hand.
She simply said, I will not let anything grow.
"Demeter."
"Waiting.
No.
Who can bear it?
Only someone who hates herself, who
believes to pull a hand back from a daughter's cheek,
is to put love into her pocket?
Like one of those ashen Christian philosophers,
or war bound soldier.
She is gone again, and I will not bear it.
I will drag my grief through a winter of my own making
and refuse any meadow that recycles itself into hope.
Shit on the cicadas, dry meteor flash, finicky butterflies.
I will wail and thrash until the whole goddamn golden panorama
freezes over.
Then I will sit down and wait for her.
Yes."
Don't mess with a mother.