[vc_row row_height_percent=”50″ override_padding=”yes” h_padding=”2″ top_padding=”3″ bottom_padding=”3″ back_image=”56863″ back_position=”center top” overlay_alpha=”0″ gutter_size=”3″ shift_y=”0″][vc_column column_width_percent=”100″ position_vertical=”bottom” style=”dark” overlay_alpha=”50″ gutter_size=”3″ medium_width=”0″ shift_x=”0″ shift_y=”0″ zoom_width=”0″ zoom_height=”0″ width=”1/1″][vc_custom_heading heading_semantic=”h1″ text_size=”fontsize-338686″ text_height=”fontheight-179065″ text_space=”fontspace-111509″ text_font=”font-762333″ text_weight=”700″ text_color=”color-xsdn” sub_reduced=”yes” subheading=”by Rita Feinstein”]Persephone Waits for Spring[/vc_custom_heading][/vc_column][/vc_row][vc_row][vc_column width=”1/1″][vc_empty_space empty_h=”2″][/vc_column][/vc_row][vc_row][vc_column][vc_column_text]Her heart was deeper than a thermos
and couldn’t be filled,
and there wasn’t enough stale coffee
to last the winter,
even when watered down so much
it tasted only like heat.
She had to crawl onto the counter,
faux granite marbled
like fatty blood, to reach the coffee,
a cheerless holiday blend.
She shook the last of the bag
into her French press
and waited for it to darken and fortify.
Those first few sips
were as promising as the sound
of his feet on the stairs.
Every day was the day he might say
you can go home,
but everything he said was a false spring—
a peach blossom
taking its first breath, then broken
in a fist of snow.[/vc_column_text][/vc_column][/vc_row][vc_row][vc_column column_width_percent=”100″ align_horizontal=”align_center” overlay_alpha=”50″ gutter_size=”3″ medium_width=”0″ mobile_width=”0″ shift_x=”0″ shift_y=”0″ z_index=”0″ width=”1/1″][vc_empty_space][vc_separator sep_color=”color-184322″ el_width=”30%”][vc_empty_space][/vc_column][/vc_row][vc_row][vc_column column_width_percent=”100″ align_horizontal=”align_right” overlay_alpha=”50″ gutter_size=”3″ medium_width=”0″ mobile_width=”0″ shift_x=”0″ shift_y=”0″ z_index=”0″ width=”1/3″][vc_single_image media=”58005″ media_width_percent=”100″][/vc_column][vc_column width=”1/3″][vc_column_text]Rita Feinstein is the author of the poetry chapbook Life on Dodge (Brain Mill Press). Her work has appeared in The Cossack Review, Permafrost, and Grist, among other publications. She received her MFA from Oregon State University.[/vc_column_text][/vc_column][vc_column width=”1/3″][/vc_column][/vc_row]