Not Persephone

She is tired of the mole-
blind days, the silence 
and cold of winter broken

only intermittently 
by the rasp of ice 
sliding off the roof,

or the rare snowplow 
diverted to these smaller 
residential streets. Once, 

she may have thought
she could survive on a diet
of clear broth, herbal tea,

fruit whose insides 
you could pare thin as 
the skin of windowpanes.

Who, again, is enforcer
of her removal from 
the world of normal

mothers and daughters, 
her isolation in a cave
of her own displacement?

She pours some flakes 
of cereal into a smooth white bowl, 
tops them with a surfeit of berries.