thesmophoria in grey.

A statement to Cerberus, the roughhewn;
her blood is hypoxic, blooming florid,
that name too profound to be hummed so soon
frets the desert-beat heart, throbbing torrid.

Deep-sea glass will tell this sobering tale
through sundry a dawn of dusks and daybreaks,
in lifelong ties to a slow coffin nail
she dyes droplets of Sauvignon headaches.

Fixed in the Kuiper Belt, lobbed asunder
to the core of a ghost; plutonian,
her mother counsels the springtide thunder
in a burnt garden, his bid chthonian:

“Our grim daydreams, no longer monochrome –
mother, child, to dew from dead winter; home.”