Micro-fiction II

Compulsive Vulnerability

Falling in love is succumbing to hunger. A hunger and a terror. We want to munch love, clamp and grind our teeth as though biting down really hard will secure the feed. Or else squeeze as one holds a child, a pet, or a teddy bear. Pull it close enough to absorb into our very being. A constant hunger that becomes a greedy devouring. A killing. Love is a hunger and a death terror. Who will kill first? Give me longing any day. As long as I long I will love you. Love doesn’t know what it is. A moment, a life-time, a word, an act. You are a moment, a life-time, a word, and an act. Longing moments speaking, munching, clamping and squeezing, lasting a life-time. Longing always a movement. The most secure place for love is in the mausoleum. Give me a longing life any day.


Persephone’s Letter

Dear Momma.

No abduction, no rape. How else could we get me outta town? He breathed life and fire, speed and stealth; Momma, I wanted a feast of that. I revel in exile Momma. I roam fully, through the borderland of all extremes. Worship my bouquet of corn and celebrate the birthing, the blossoming, and the fruit, but know this Momma: when you sway in the dance of fertility, don’t forget to stroke the underbelly of all beasts. I needed no provoking into pleasure Momma. We are all powerful mysterious mistresses Momma. Grieve and worship me whole Momma, or not at all, and please Momma, gorge on the pomegranate dripping crimson syrup from your mouth. And fret not the drop in temperature Momma, the party continues downstairs in the shady sound of artful sleep under the warm blanket of an assured momentary death.

Live. My adored Momma. Live.