FROM THE
ENCHANTED HOUSE
Poetry by Beth E. Janzen
Persephone at 13
He's brought another gift
My mother will be worried
I hide it with the apple seeds
and the snakeskin purse
under my bed, next to the wall
He's a pig! my mother says
pacing the kitchen floor
Her hands are sticky with bread dough
and her apron strings: undone
I am silent
remembering
His body erupting from the lake
the light trapped above his lip
his darkness between my legs
He's promised he'll
come for me
split the world like a seed
and carry me far
flying in his dusky chariot
I hug my knees to my chest, with my fate,
knowing I can skip myself across eternity
like a sharp flat stone
***
Persephone: Birthday
This woman was big.
Linebacker shadow
barging over the wall.
Firelight, her upper lip
coarse with boar’s hair,
blotched with sweat.
I already knew:
Daylight’s for the bold.
I’ll take this dark sac
this salt, this wet.
My mother ate popcorn
and hummed Abba tunes.
For a hobby, she wove wheat into
patterns: hearts, arrows, chains.
Her patience didn’t fool me.
Always I felt that waiting,
the woman outside
eager to grasp me
with blacksmith’s tongs,
tear my cord, force into my mouth
the seed which sprouts
obedience—
What did I care for seasons?
yet destiny has a power
greater than one girl’s reluctance.
In short, I was born.
This stupid world
of sorrow and joy
began in the triumphant midwife’s hands.
And up on the mountain
the Gods all lit cigars.
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excerpt
