These two poems by Jack Cariad Leon sleekly coalesce the magical and the earthly…
by: Jack Cariad Leon
David I tried to write about you. You happened to tell me you bathe with lily petal lotions. I dreamed of you coming from the north, star of all my most romantic dreams. And I wished for you, too - I was painting a vision, an outline of you approaching, broad white brushstrokes filling your arms: star shaped flowers, casablancas, blossoming into view at the same time I would first gaze at you. I was sad one day so you let me visit from the south. I met you at the train station and I followed you to your home on foot, and you were so bright and glittering I could never have dreamed of it. I almost couldn’t look away the whole time. Even the way you spoke to those birds in your garden I wasn’t thinking about your arms anymore. I was thinking about my own, how empty they were. I wanted you in them.
Persephone
She's in the dirt now
but you can't compare her to a dead body.
She's a goddess,
the goddess of spring.
I asked why she was dug up
and the woman nearest to me says,
"We kept watering her hoping she'd come back to life."
You can't compare her to a flower -
she belongs to the underworld
for she resides over that, too.
And, more than anything,
she's like salt.
The land is barren ever since she died.
It's like a ripple in the earth…
Last week everything within a six mile radius -
all the trees and plants,
the weeds and fungus,
all the birds and the creatures nesting,
have withered and yellowed
or run or flown away,
or rotted.
This week it's a seven mile radius.
So the men get their shovels
and bury her again.
We continue to do everything we can
but it all feels a little too late.
With crossed arms I look to the skies
and wonder who we should call on,
now that Persephone has died.
Jack Cariad Leon (he/him) is a transgender writer and visual artist based in Brisbane, Australia. A fan of the avant-garde, he collects dolls and art books of certain genres. He also has a deep interest in the history and lore of flowers.