Persephone By Therese Leigh from Hell and Its Horizons

I.

Her hand engendered the field's grace.

When I think of my childhood,

I remember ever present spring--

a constant explosion of blossoming,

what I thought would be

eternal flutters of bright wings,

a hush of golden petals drifting,

the soft hum in the haze over the meadow

as the bees dipped to the nectar.

I opened myself to the burgeoning land

as she set me loose

among the flowers.

My generous, liberal mother

spread her gifts before me

as if she dumped ripe apples

from an apron overflowing with fecundity,

and I lapped up the riches of her milk at first

and then the honey of her doting kisses,

dwelt in her gaze fulsome on my tender cheeks

as I skipped in the midst of her abundance.

Innocent among the maidens

I plundered the sunlit field,

filled my basket to spilling,

and kept on plucking

wherever bright daisies beckoned,

unsuspecting.

Then his grasping hand

in the center of a delectable thicket

drew me down

so suddenly I did not think

to pull back

as my face plunged

into the petals,

and I fell below

into his dark lap.

My screams

for mother and daylight

he did not heed

as I traveled under his cape

to Tartarus,

where my blushes faded,

bleached like death

under the ardor

of his repugnant kisses.

He ripped aside my chemise

and devoured all that was pure.

II.

Bride of the Night.

Queen of the Dead.

The grey tumult swells

engulfs my senses,

till I can no longer remember

color and light,

and I learn decorum,

how to reign among the shades.

I drift in a dream of nepenthe.

Why does this malaise intrigue men--

my misfortune, my prison,

black gown moist with unspeakable liquids,

skin that smells

like sorrow,

eyes grained like dead leaves,

dry, dry

with no tears left to cry.

I am become cold--

yet the men come,

try to steal me away

from the bowels of hell--

Theseus. Pirithous.

They want to fuck

the Queen of the Dead.

III.

The pomegranate seeds...

I ate thereof -- only six --

and yet they chain me to an unholy fate.

How like the gods

to blame me for my hunger.

So I dwell here for half the year.

IV.

The celebrants wait

the return of the maiden,

and I am thrust up out of night and chaos,

clawing suddenly into the dew-kissed

daisies of my recent youth.

White hands of virgins

draw me up,

bathe me in the spring,

they pinch my cheeks--

bring roses to my pallor,

and I am clean again,

virginity restored.

I try to smile

as I approach the celebrants.

My mother rejoices

quickens her step.

I advance slowly

see in her face

how she has made the world

new again for me.

They seem not to know

I pretend to be alive.

No one cares

if the rite is a sham--

it must be conducted perfectly

and in measured time.

Priestess and hierophant

patiently await

their unholy coupling.

Garlanded, I dance with holiday glee,

an automaton,

wind-up doll,

pawn of the gods.

Do they not know my black heart

has not changed its colors.

I am the Queen of the Dead.

My skin flutters in the daylight

like a limp flag

waiting to be borne

to its real country.

Back to Underworldly Documents

Back to the House of Hades

Back to my main page.