I don't think of Persephone until the knife
is clean through and red

is seeping onto the board.
The two bleeding halves in front of me

a vision of her clouds my eyes. Persephone
sits stiff in her chair—her mouth stained

her lips a thin hard line—
as an overjoyed Hades bares his sharp teeth.

Pulling tart ruby tears free
of their webbing

I don't pity poor trapped Persephone.
I wonder instead at the trouble

Hades went to—the terrible trick
he planned carefully

and played well. To be wanted so badly
I can't help thinking. By anyone.