Proserpine

I fell in with a man from a small country.
He stopped on a rainy lane and asked did I want a ride.
My mother’d told me always to follow my feet

but the fumes that day overpowered my nose.
He bit me hard then nubbed at my love pearl.
Red seeds fell from the wound. He says I ate them.

He offered me board if I paid for room
among bloodless artistes and ivory heroes
by charging his battery—one or two shocks.

Time passed and faded. There’s a beauty in that.
He took up his helmet. I saw he was sightless.
I said let’s let it rip. Soot fell about us.

Once I’d signed his note that hell could not be
improved on, he set me loose for the summer.
He’d have slipped me into his wallet if I’d fit.

TAB: A Journal of Poetry & Poetics 9, 1 (2021)