Persephone's Crossings
I.

I am born into this story of selves,
one that leaves the fruit to rust,

the other that cuts the sweet –

this memory

is shadow
is bruise
is coyote – I wish

I never knew the sound of howling.

In this version, I am more or less already
gone,

a daguerreotype under a long exposure.

In this version, the nectarines are ripe:
copacetic    falling off the tree    sweet
ready

& I am a woman, not girl.

Woman with mother’s eyes,
woman with a maroon mouth –

woman with distances already within me.