A thousand Persephones lie bleeding in the Lethe,
a thousand more cross on Charon's armada,
proud brows gleaming, hair windswept,
the first shawls they made once they taught themselves to knit
clutched to their shoulders, flak-jacket secure.
Behind the sandbags crouch the grunts of Hades, primed to feed
a thousand chains of regret through greasy barrels.
We peer through sniper slots
at the enemy's gowned grace,
shudder, rub our hands, wish for breath
to warm our palms, wait sadly for the order
to serve the feast.