3 re-published poems by Marisa Silva-Dunbar : A Poetry Showcase

brown flowers

photo by Annie Spratt (unsplash)

First published in Dark Marrow Issue 2: Survivor

Coins for Charon

I.
You ignored her for three months,
if you hadn’t, it would’ve brought
war between us—I kept constant
guard and never wanted you to know.
Confessions are pouring out of me.

You say there is no meaning in the attention
you give her now—she isn’t coming back;
you won’t let her, but she’s a rotting seed 
you planted in me. You let her presence 
grow—didn’t cut her out to save me.
If you wanted her gone, you would’ve 
removed her from the root—crushed
her leaves beneath your foot.

        II.
This is how Persephone died—
poisoned on the table after performing
a self surgery to pull the festerous Minthe 
from her belly; using all her strength
to quell the destructive and foolish nymph.

She’ll never know if Hades left coins for Charon
resting on her eyes as she faded into oblivion. 

One last message for Hades

I’ve swallowed my own form of poison—take a scalpel to me; 
dissect and see if any enchantments remain.
I can’t stop myself from spilling some sort of prayer 
over you even in these liminal spaces; you need to find 
the incantations and magick that sleep in your bones
without splitting your own skin. 
 
If  I had the same curse as Kilgrave, a simple suggestion
would cease any of your favorite forms of self-destruction.
or if I was Our Lady of the Trees, whatever seeds I planted 
around you—would sprout and heal your hurt. 

Persephone Reborn

In the anatomical theatre, I was the cadaver on the table
—chalk white and empty of body fluids. No one remembered 
who I was before the leeches and bloodletting—they said all 
the old gods were dead. In absentia—on the edge of consciousness,

I dreamt I was packed with sand and pebbles—growing succulents,
the only plants I could produce through bone and muscle—a body
barely worth returning to. What magic was left in me? Who would want
a Goddess of Spring, only useful in the unchanging desert? 

Death always has a job—even if the title is ever changing; he is honored
out of fear. You should’ve known he despises a life without me, 
that he would find a way to cultivate a garden to grow within me.
He filled my torso with peonies, and gardenias; placed chrysanthemums

in my heart so that it pulsed with color.  He gently planted narcissus 
in my throat and palms; his own way of calling and clinging to me. 
Waking, I tasted him in my blood, could smell his familiar scent
as if I had never left—it was inevitable he’d find a way to bring me home.


Bio: Marisa Silva-Dunbar's work has been published in Analogies & Allegories Literary Magazine, Dear Reader, Chantarelle's Notebook, and Daily Drunk Magazine. Marisa is the co-editor of the anthology "Kirstofia." She has work forthcoming in Sledgehammer Lit Mag and Pink Plastic House. Her second chapbook, "When Goddesses Wake," is forthcoming from Maverick Duck Press. You can find her on Twitter and Instagram @thesweetmaris. 


By davidlonan1

David writes poetry, short stories, and writings that'll make you think or laugh, provoking you to examine images in your mind. To submit poetry, photography, art, please send to feversofthemind@gmail.com. Twitter: @davidLOnan1 + @feversof Facebook: DavidLONan1

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