SOLSTICE.

By Shelly Jones

I sit here in this dank cave,

seeds sprouting in my stomach,

waiting for the day they will crack

open my ribcage, the same way he came

thundering through the earth,

craning for my light.

I walk by the river, my veil draped

over my face, dripping into the dead.

Their bloated bodies cringe at the organza,

sheer and silken, too similar

to human flesh for them. And I weep

at their withered hands pawing at my feet.

He comes at me, honey-tongued, once more,

the same way he did that day, from below.

The dog snarls, baring her many teeth.  

He leaves, sulking, and the dog lays

her weary heads back down in my lap,

content to be my steadfast companion for now.

The seeds begin to curl out of me,

and I know it is almost time

when I may return to the sun,

however brief it is, until I feel that

familiar quake below and let the daffodils

slip from my hand back to the earth once more. 

Shelly Jones, PhD (she/her/hers) is an Associate Professor of English at SUNY Delhi, where she teaches classes in mythology, folklore, and writing. Her speculative work has previously appeared in Podcastle, New Myths, The Future Fire, and elsewhere. Find her on Twitter @shellyjansen.