By Casey Holman
(or, “why the first day of spring should be mother’s day”)
I grew up with:
the fruits with their yellow-red-spotted-black skin and six hundred thirteen seeds.
bare feet, wood floors
my mother’s warm soft bedsheets
This is where my heart is from,
came to love the sound of mine and my brother’s laughs
the taste of lemon rind,
fresh, raw rosemary,
When Persephone left Demeter,
these seeds counted the time they were apart.