Requiem
She gathers the mushrooms each week,
collecting colourful caps, stalks that slowly
emerge from the loam, inch back into her life
like an unwanted lover. Her scarred hand,
skin scaled and scalded - but still strong
enough to wield a knife - holds the fungus
to her ear. Its gills whisper his message
from the grave before she severs it silent again.
Echo
It’s difficult being well-known
for a voice that isn’t even mine.
Some who think they know my story feel
pity for me, but they presume too much and weep
tears as fast as wringing out a sponge.
He would not cry for me, nor I for him now:
Too many years of mindless repetition.
He thought himself so loved, but people
only think of him now in spring,
until the daffodils droop and sag,
their faces wilted into the ground.
But me, they feel beside them every
time they are alone and ask,
“Who’s there?” and their voice
replies “there” in the dark.
On Listening to the Patter of Melting Snow
Snowdrops bow
their
opal heads
at the quickening footfalls
of Persephone from below
and the warmth of Demeter’s
pallid
cheek thaws
the frost-covered Earth
as she turns at the familiar sound.
Shelly Jones (they/them) is a
professor at a small college in upstate New York, where they teach classes in
mythology, folklore, and writing. Their speculative work has previously
appeared in F&SF, New Myths, The Future Fire, and
elsewhere. Find them on Twitter @shellyjansen or at https://shellyjonesphd.wordpress.com/.
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