Kore
By
J. Linn Rose © 1991-2005
My
mother, a lean and fragile goddess
Conspired
her loss unaware
Protesting
much like the hungry sow
Over
a piglet she might not spare
I
was an inconvenience
So
needful at the teat
Reflecting
her inadequacy
I
could never be her seed
I
was the result of cosmic thoughtlessness
My
hunger a crime of greed
(That
I survived was an act of impudence!)
So
be a good baby, said she
And
have no need of me
Then
a riddle she sowed
In
the back of my head
To
summon up memory:
When
the north wind blows
The pomegranate aflame
You
will know you are alive
Though
none but I
Can
light the pale brow afire
But with tears of grief and shame.