by Brett Rutherford
After Theocritus
Seven, just seven, when Fate
saw for to hurl her down
to Hades! What do they say below
when a mere child comes among them?
Will she drink the black wine,
and will her young lips curl back
at the sour bite of cornelian cherries?
Will she have leave to search
for the infant brother preceding her,
himself not even three years old?
Nurse them, Persephone, and place
some honeyed water near them,
that they, poor bees, may slumber.
Send some consoling dream at least
to Persilere, their mother.
