Persephone

The Queen and her King,
make their home in the barrio
with their three pit bulls.
He spends his days out on the road
riding a Dyna Street Bob—
collecting wandering souls.

She dances around their bungalow
in onyx thigh-highs, a midnight lace romper
and a short burgundy Kimo decorated
with pearl colored lotus blossoms,
smoking a blunt with Lana Del Rey on the stereo.

Persephone is long inky black bed-hair,
a curl—wrapped around her finger—
stiletto nails in NARS Jungle Red,
stacked silver rings that she fiddles
with when waiting. She lounges in the solarium
(her honey built for her) reading Anaïs Nin
filled with longing, wanting him home—NOW.

At night, she’s barefoot in a baby-pink satin slip,
sitting on his lap—pouting for more kisses
and cuddles. She’s eager, begging please.
Persephone is nail and blood marks down his back;
only her Sir gets her like this—
his tattooed knuckles teasing her. He’s a smirk
and bite on her lower lip. She’s a sigh of finally
finding home.

---

Marisa is a poet, bruja, spirit companion, and contributing writer for Pussy Magic. Growing up in the Southwest influenced her magickal practices, and she considers herself a kitchen witch. In her free time, she enjoys reading about the Fae Folk, scandals in Old Hollywood, and the spirits of the sea. She is obsessed with kitschy motels in the desert, mermaids, vampires, and pinups. In her twenties she attended UEA in England, and misses being able to sit in pubs, people watch, and write. You can find her on Instagram, Tumblr, and Twitter @thesweetmaris.