So, I’m stopped at the red light, right?
And I see them pulling up behind me
in the red glow of the traffic’s brakes:
all the ghosts of my past and skeletons
from my closet: the one-night-stands,
the not-boyfriends, the faceless men
I do not remember entirely, all of them
buddy-buddy with each other, wearing
Realtree Gator Waders, piled into the back
of a lifted Silverado, mud-washed like
they just all-wheeled straight through the Styx,
up from Hell. They’re spitting fire into
dip cups and swinging Louisville Sluggers,
drumming fingers across the tailgate like
they’re on the way to beat the shit out of
somebody: Hades’ hounds loosed to track
me down for being a slut. I’ve got half
a mind to get gone, goose it through the
intersection before they come to a stop,
traffic laws be damned, but they holler
from the open windows and bed of the truck
we’ve all seen you naked, and that is true,
but I own this dream, so I stay to stand my
ground. I’m like, you’re welcome, that skin
was limited edition. I’m literally Persephone
in cowgirl boots, goddess of necromancy
and y’all are dead to me. I am queen of
the Underworld, sorry not sorry. For me,
the Earth is born again each Spring, what
wild oats would grow without my return?
Sure, I swallowed the pomegranate seeds,
why wouldn’t I? I am mistress of death,
mother to nightmare, woman of your dreams,
add slut to the list and I still come back
to the desperate Earth every six months.
Without me, you would die of drought.