‘It was given the name South Spring
after Persephone, drugged either by love
or pomegranate kernel, decided once-and-for-all
to push back the date of which she was supposed
to return to us from the underworld. Attributable
to the delay and the goddess’ slow foot pace,
Spring would be arriving late. The name
is thus to remind the immortal one that we,
those who are still shivering under Demeter’s
anger in the southern part of New Hampshire,
specifically on this god-damn street, are still waiting,
waiting for the bitter cold to wear off our skins
and for blood to return to our veins so that we
could work or go to school without being trapped
inside of a house and forced to watch cream
color paint desperately peeling itself off of the interior
walls of our kitchens and bedrooms for god
knows how many more generations.’ This myth
which had repeatedly shown up on the tip
of my father’s tongue during the days we lived
in the house with a broken heater on South Spring
Street was my favorite childhood bedtime story. True.
South Spring Street was icy and sometimes unpleasant
especially when you only owned a few blankets
to keep yourself out of the cold. But looking back,
the street itself reminded me nothing but those cuddling
nights in which my father and I spent doing nothing
but criticizing gods and keeping ourselves warm.
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