Persephone in Washington

 


by Sarah Avery


  

Persephone's Life as a Mortal Woman

 
  Full summer, and I'm living in the cool 
  Green shadow of a sprawling park.  The creek 
  Sings something through my window all night long. 
  Mornings, I answer telephones in the gray 
  World, pretty appliance at the desk, and hide 
  Within my secretary clothes a jewel 
  Of guilt and awe, uncertain what it is, 
  Hard, red, and beautiful in its puzzling way. 
  I don't remember where or how I found it. 
  I take my evening jog and stretch among 
  The mosses in the park.  I catch the news 
  And fall asleep, forgetting what they say, 
  And dream sometimes of a dangerous broken rule, 
  Something I've forgotten or done wrong. 


  

At the Office Blood Drive, Persephone Sees Momentarily into the Underworld

 
  I forgot.  Was that my spring, my blessing? 
  I see the bead of blood, the seed of promise, 
  Someone else's promise.  Whose?  The ball 
  Of blood in rubber wrapping mocks me, bright 
  And firm, a fluid pomegranate.  On 
  The soft of my arm, the seed's red ghost, a call 
  To what I had forgotten.  Now I see 
  The contract's awful terms.  The nurse's light 
  Touch on my forehead, her concern, fade 
  Into unreality.  He's kissing 
  Me on the chariot, that first time, and down 
  In his hall, at the table, catching sight 
  Of how I've doomed myself.  What am I missing? 
  Memory takes me hard.  I see.  I fall. 


  

The Department of the Interior

 
  Lie down.  No?  Take a break.  No?  Take 
  A walk.  Or take the whole day off.  They name 
  These ways to banish this gray, troubling face 
  Of mine.  Thank you, no more orange juice. 
  Taxidermy galleries keep watch 
  Along the main halls of this stony place. 
  Glass eyes watch me leaving, call me back. 
  The threadbare, hollowed presence of a moose-- 
  In frozen, antlered choreography 
  With antlered others gathered round a lake 
  Of Teddy Roosevelt's contrivance--seems 
  To know that I'm accepting an excuse. 
  The terror in my heart has snapped awake, 
  To wild now for my staid days to encase. 


  

Off Work Early in Washington, Necropolis of Columbia

 
  I think I never saw the place before. 
  A tour guide's multitude of griefless mourners 
  Glides through ornamental empty tombs. 
  Sepulchral city, where the living call 
  On dead names, and are not nourished by their sound. 
  The humble or unknown ones lost to war 
  Are all these markers know of public grief. 
  Where are this city's own dead, far from all  
  the clicks of somber flash photography? 
  The soldiers' hill across Potomac looms. 
  Its regiments of stars and crosses echoes 
  Names and names cut into a black wall-- 
  With presidential specters by the score 
  Gone separately to their common dooms.
  
  

Persephone's Ascent to the Underworld, via the Washington Monument

 
  This time I'll get to the bottom of things.  I know 
  Better than to go there on his terms, 
  And down would mire me in the buried river 
  L'Enfant didn't want among his domes. 
  The Tiber makes a messy marsh of things, 
  But I can't hold this pain and wait to go         
  Until he comes to steal me in the fall. 
  The ghastly marble Monument rises, looms 
  Above me, and I see the way to take. 
  Remembering him now, I know he'll never 
  Expect me at his borders from below. 
  Over the general's tower, the sky foams.        
  The marble stairs above the final row 
  Of monumental blocks open and shiver. 


  

A Guide Arrives, Mighty in the Three Worlds

 
  I see her shadowing toward me--here is one 
  I ought to know.  I used to know.  Her palm 
  Is marked in three deep lines converging, 
  Held out to me in welcome or demand. 
  Here inside the marble tower's height 
  Her silence chills me.  Beams of dusty sun  
  Fall through blunt windows.  What do I do next? 
  Impatiently she shows again her hand. 
  And then I know her--red-cloaked Hecate, 
  Her three roads joined, and time at last is surging 
  Through me.  She will take me underneath 
  My life, my death, down into Hades's land, 
  Where she is fearless.  No chance now to run, 
  To turn back.  No.  Her silence is her urging.
  
  
  

Hades Would Bar Her Path

 
  You're here, you're mine, and I will send you back 
  When I am good and done with you, you whore. 
  What do you think you're doing?  You can't knock 
  A season early at my deadly door, 
  Barge in to pack your things and just walk out 
  Whichever way you please.  This is my place.             
  You are my woman.  Don't you dare to shout 
  At me.  I am the King of the Dead.  My face 
  Is in your eyes forever.  You can't get 
  Away, you can't get past, you can't get through 
  Or call for help, so keep your damn mouth shut. 
  I'm everywhere you go.  I'm even you.           
  All you're taking back is this one thing: 
  The bitter burden of my longed-for spring. 


  

Hades Cannot Face the Heart of Rage

 
  Just when he thinks he's broken me again 
  I reach into my chest, nails through the skin, 
  Then fingers, thumb and wrist.  I draw my curse 
  Out of myself.  My heart, bright in my hand, 
  Is rage-white, clean as daylight, burns without 
  Consuming.  He is trembling, blinded, worse, 
  Is cowering behind his throne, but I 
  See clear.  The cave into the deeper land, 
  The world below the Kingdom of the Dead 
  Shows black where I had thought I saw the stain 
  Of pomegranate blood.  My heart is searing. 
  I cannot hold this light as I descend. 
  Through the black, my rage still shines, though wan,  
  Wrapped in a paper napkin in my purse. 


  

Climbing Down to Light, Persephone Contemplates the Absurdity of Her Clothes

 
  He always feared this place.  I fear it too. 
  My heart's white rage illumines just itself. 
  This could be worse than what I left above, 
  And I am blind here.  Fingers spreading wide, 
  I step a tiny step into the gulf 
  Of blackness, boundless though I feel the wall 
  Of smooth-worn stone is cool against my hand. 
  I lean too far, and soon begin to slide. 
  My feet fly out from under me.  There's time 
  To think of my high heels before the cave 
  Rises to meet my sprawl.  Here I am, still 
  In my work clothes, hose and all.  My side 
  Aches, but I think I catch a distant view 
  Of light in branches, moving and alive. 


  

Persephone Examines the King Stag

 
  He faintly smells of roasted venison. 
  His hide is scarred in crazy-quilted shapes 
  Of shoes, bookbindings, drumheads, healing small 
  And stitched together with stiff sinew threads. 
  A golden garland hangs around his neck, 
  Woven of chaff and straw.  The grains are all 
  Threshed out.  He comes to me and breathes me in. 
  My scent of rage and pain and mingled dreads 
  Confuses him.  And I am puzzled too: 
  Caught rattling in his antlers is the sun. 
  It hovers like a helium balloon, 
  Small, hot, and smelling of a thousand breads. 
  Gentle king, beautiful eaten one, 
  He leaps back through the woods.  I stand and call. 


  

Pursuit, and an Unexpected Find

 
  I follow through the forest, and I find 
  I'm not the only one who trails behind. 
  Two careful footprints leap across a stream 
  And land in spatters, bare and broad-set twins. 
  Water pools in the toes, but it would seem 
  Whoever left them stood here not long since. 
  A shadow in the trees drops, turns to dart 
  Toward the stag, then turns again to me, 
  All silent caution gone.  Now I can see 
  My sister Artemis, arms flung broad apart 
  To welcome me and my pale blazing heart. 
  She'll take me where she's camped, we both agree. 
  Since falling I've been wandering lost and free, 
  Backward all this time to where I start. 


  

A Festive Welcome

 
  They all come out to greet me at the camp: 
  Vesta leaves off cooking at her stove, 
  A delicate propane item, well-designed; 
  Cerridwen and Brigid, very new 
  Acquaintances, embrace me.  They've been tending 
  A black, enormous cauldron, boiling-brined. 
  Inanna, Queen of Heaven, and Aretha, 
  Queen of Soul, are pleased to have me, too. 
  My sister points my eyes up to the roof. 
  Amaterasu, hovering with her lamp 
  Above the forest, waves and blows a kiss. 
  "Hon, we've been waiting all this time for you," 
  My sister says, and starts us with a stamp. 
  "Into the cauldron with you.  Do you mind?" 


  

Having Had a Hard Day Already, Persephone Prevaricates about Being Cooked

 
  But maybe I do mind.  The trouble is 
  My heart is starting to consume itself. 
  I am already burning, and I want 
  To tell my friends the story.  I'm afraid 
  To tell my friends the story.  Wicked heart, 
  It burns through all its wrappings, and I can't 
  Carry it any farther.  Brigid comes 
  To hold me, and my fear begins to fade. 
  I stand there in my burning clothes and weep. 
  I think I'll fall to ash soon.  Maybe this 
  Is the best end I can hope for.  Not so bad, 
  But what an inconvenient mess I've made 
  For all these goddesses.  Good old Artemis 
  Pitches me in the pot and chants her chant. 


  

Persephone Finds the Center of Her Grief

 
  This poem is a still, white, empty room. 
  My footsteps echo on the dusty floor. 
  In this room, my muscles need not tense. 
  No one comes.  There is no door to pull. 
  This poem is where I cannot be hurt. 
  Gardenia fills the air.  No more the scents 
  Of isopropyl, iodine, and salt. 
  The air is cool.  The air is very still. 
  This poem cannot hold me in.  Some voice, 
  Some sting, some brighter light, my mother's comb, 
  Through lank hair pulls me back into the weight. 
  This poem is the quiet heart of hell, 
  Eye of the spinning storm, the whorling bloom, 
  Chill focus of an all-igniting lens. 


  

Demeter and Zeus, Having Forgotten How to Keen

 
  I thought she'd halt the world, she was so strong. 
  I thought my father king of all the gods, 
  But they were broken, too.  I longed to blame            
  Them for the many half-years I spent dead. 
  I was She Whom All Recourse Had Failed, 
  And just as happy to forget my name. 
  But they were both so silent in their grief, 
  I never realized how my pain had spread 
  And merged with theirs, how all of us 
  Had differently taught ourselves to fawn 
  On Him Who Killed Me.  Drinking in my heart, 
  I hear again the last thing that she said 
  Before I vanished:  "This cannot go on. 
  How is it that it goes on all the same?" 


  

Persephone Emerges from the Cauldron

 
  I wake to valerian and betony 
  Steaming with me in the cauldron's brine. 
  Inanna lifts me from the iron sea 
  And towels me dry to see that I am fine. 
  Amaterasu holds her mirror up, 
  And I can see my face has now no sign 
  Of terror in it.  Vesta holds a cup 
  Of venison broth, and then a cup of wine 
  For me to smell, and then for me to sip. 
  Aretha's coming with me to the world 
  Above.  We can get by without a map. 
  I kiss my sister, take the banner furled 
  At camp's edge, where I pause to give 
  Thanks that I rise again from death and live. 


  

The Rescue Mission

 
  "Try this on," she says.  "It ought to fit." 
  Artemis hands me a flowing deerskin robe, 
  Heavy but supple, dyed a joyful red. 
  I slide it on, and she pulls up the cowl 
  To shade my face.  It's just a bit too big, 
  But fine for where we're going.  I admit, 
  I'm just as glad to travel in disguise 
  Through Hades's kingdom.  He'll let loose a howl 
  When he finds out we've led the dead away 
  To hope and haunting up above instead 
  Of waiting for nothing in his endless gray. 
  The white rose banner opens bright.  I growl. 
  Aretha sings a lively Motown hit, 
  And so we climb to gather up the dead.

Aretha's Incantation

 
  The Mended Queen is climbing, come to comfort all her dead. 
  The Mended Queen is climbing, come to comfort all her dead. 
  You done her wrong, Old Hades.  Better cover up your head. 
  The shadows by the river hardly see her where she stands. 
  The shadows by the river hardly see her where she stands, 
  Until the spring of memory rises, pouring from her open hands. 
  She calls them and they follow.  No one needs a backward glance. 
  She calls them and they follow.  No one needs a backward glance. 
  That three-headed dog would join them if he thought he stood a chance. 
  Hear folks calling up on U Street, calling, "Bring that song back home." 
  Hear folks calling up on U Street, calling, "Bring that song back home-- 
  And bring that choir of haunts back with you.  Ain't the same since 
       they've been gone." 
  Yesterday we sang a blue song, but today we sing of love. 
  Yesterday we sang a blue song, but today we sing of love. 


  

Surfacing at the Dupont Circle Metro Station, Persephone Anticipates

 
  We reach the subway tracks.  At last we strike           
  Air of the upper world and breathe it deep. 
  We mount the escalator, a tumbling mass 
  Under the gleaming flag of my white rose. 
  We'll meet the living soon, Aretha notes. 
  From café windows, sipping demitasse 
  They'll see us, and they'll weep with awe and hope. 
  In summer wind the Circle's fountain blows 
  A mist around our coming.  Three bicycle 
  Couriers, one bewildered leatherdyke, 
  And a beggar are the first to see us rise, 
  And then a startled family of crows. 
  The station's marble mouth gleams white, and like 
  A rose, it opens for the dead to pass.