by Rachel Pittman

 a golden shovel after Rita Dove’s “Demeter Mourning”

Even divine wrath has its season. I know nothing
born of winter can bear fruit in spring. My mind turns
to sticky pulp. I let each fig kiss the earth and rot. The
reek of decay clings to my dress. I sow grief to harvest gold.
I sow fury, and the grapes wilt on the vine. I offer frost to
mouths that beg for bread. No more rye and barley. No corn.

Call me goddess of wither. Mother of hunger. Nothing
stirs in this soil but worms. O, ravenous daughter, is
your husband feeding you well? I sour every sweet
fruit in your absence. I fallow and spoil. I could dig to
your door, but the dirt swells with death. You know the
cost of your wedding is winter. Child, your milk tooth
always pinched me cold. All night I practice crushing
snow in my mouth. I refuse to let warmth in.

Rachel Pittman is a Ph.D. student at Georgia State University where she teaches writing and serves as an Assistant Editor at Five Points. Her writing has appeared in Whale Road Review, Strange Horizons, and Fairy Tale Review. Instagram: @rachelerinpittman