By Jena Woodhouse.
I recognised him instantly.
I knew our nemesis had struck:
the way he coolly sized us up—
Demeter, then Persephone.
You could tell he emanated
from the darkest, deepest depths.
Iniquity was in his breath, his every
glance. He eyed my daughter.
When I next heard news of her,
they were together, she and Death.
My desolation withered bud and leaf,
hovering above the earth, a curse
on me, a blight on growth,
and flowering, and chlorophyll;
a black bane that affected wheat.
I wrested her from Death’s embrace
a dozen times; we’d celebrate,
dancing for Terpsichore,
crowned with poppies, hyacinths,
where the young wheat
swathed the fields in green,
as if she’d never left.
But each time she’d return to him,
winter followed in her stead,
leaving me to bear my grieving,
heavier than stones, than lead.
She doesn’t miss her mother— ever,
but, as is Demeter’s lot, my heart
does not forget. What mother
willingly gives up a daughter?
