Billie Dee
Persephone
No envelope. Just a dime-store valentine taped to a Whitman’s Sampler, the one
with pink roses stamped on the lid.
I smirked at first—but something
about the box’s crushed corner, slumped
chocolate cherries—stayed with me all day.
He didn’t sign the card. He didn’t need to.
I want
to crack you open
spill
all your rubies into my palm
pomegranate lover
About the Author
Billie Dee is the former U.S. National Library Service Poet Laureate. She earned her doctorate at UCI, has won numerous poetry contests, publishes online and off. She lives in the Chihuahuan Desert with her family and a betta fish named Ramon.