DEATH Poem: I can be the love in Persephone’s narcissus, by Amari Hurt

Unable to enclose shadows within our hands,
we learn their cunning nature quickly.
As death’s acolyte, they slither through each
of my fingers and slip into the cracks of mold that’ve
grown on the sutures embedded in my sternum.
Each pointed claw pulls at the stitches until the
flesh at my chest slumps to either side, and when
the shadows take form, I see thousands of faces at once.

I see ghosts of people I’ve never really cared for.
They smell like sugar water and feel like the velvet of a
bodice I ran my fingers down on a morning I realized
I could’ve loved better.

As red threads pull my soul down onto Hell’s welcome mat,
I swear death grants me an out of body experience.
It loves me loudly as it bleaches the bones of my soul
and feeds me fables of twenty-dollar angels and their
religions; built to break.

Red skies dilate my pupils; the voice in my head tells
me it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
The blood haze of burning cities whisper
that this is my safe haven, a soft landing,
and I’ve become a thing ruined so perfectly that
my vows to a sinless existence are as effective as
the kaizen of a gas station coffee.

By the time Satan stands over the fragments of a life lived too long,
he reminds me of a love poem written to celestial bodies.
He reminds me of May flowers and April showers, smells of
bloody noses and methane roots, and I wonder how anyone could
let go of his promises.

I’d much rather be the love in Persephone’s narcissus
than be a soul trapped in the grip of Seraphim.