mother, we are well
by Kathleen Ferguson
when i am unafraid, he guides me through his kingdom,
a light hand on my back as all are introduced to me.
i am his queen, they know; they bring me tokens made of everything:
flowers, twigs, morning dew.
he weaves each one into my dark hair.
he calls me softly by my name, no longer kore, and teaches me his ways,
the gifts of his people like a crown upon my head.
hades is incomplete, his dark world sharing his name in the mouths of mortals.
he tells me that it will always expand,
and mist forms in his hand of its own volition,
glowing with the moon's light.
he palms the black stones of his home, adding parts of himself to it.
at night i can see the moon's veins within my chamber walls
and he presses the silver wisps into my skin.
he tells me there is pomegranate above,
even when it should not grow in my mother's winters.
i dream of red seeds and in the morning there is a tree in my bedroom.
he cracks one open and like a bleeding heart,
the juice hits the dark ground, asphodel sprouting.
the flowers bud on the floors of the palace and along the styx.
charon drags his oar through them, smiling as he tugs free.
the shades skirt away from me in the gardens, melting into trees.
they know his kindness but do not trust me.
at the bank of the styx he touches each cheek, thumbing away tears.
i confuse most who step off the boat, so i do not touch them.
where each lands, i bring forth a flower. the styx now flows through a meadow.
even those meant for tartarus are allowed his treasures,
are granted my smiles one last time before they are thrown to the blazon depths.
they kiss my hand, begging for kindness and he pulls them away.
hecate tells me listening to their screams will not help me love my kingdom.
in the beginning this was true, but each soul that comes and goes
helps me to know the queen they see in my bones.
he sits in silence when they cry and scream.
charon will only remind them of their fate, that it cannot be changed.
he answers questions with more queries, silencing them,
but my husband allows them their voices, if only for a small moment.
they all but spit in his eye.
i remember orpheus' pain and i know my love will never forget
the look the musician gave him when eurydice was sent back down.
there are barren grounds below and when i come home,
he feasts on the things i grow there, juice squirting between his white teeth.
at night i become the fruit under his mouth.
i cleanse him of everything, my nails on shoulders that wrongly carry atlas' work.
i tell him that he should let them go, rubbing the earth from his back.
when i am done my hands come away raw.
in the beginning i wore chitons of grey wool, thick and heavy at my feet.
he does not know apollo's rays anymore,
but my skin in still blazing when i come home.
the spiders that live in my plants lend me their webs.
gowns flutter around me, letting the cool seep into my summer bones.
he shakes against me in the night, skin colder than the stone he fashions.
i soothe each shiver and kiss the sun into his neck,
praying the warmth i bring from above is enough.
i long to bring gifts, but they burn if i let them come below.
he shakes the ash from my hair when i come back to him,
my wheat crowns now one with our kingdom.
i imagine my mother's crops woven into his curls,
the yellow of dried husks bright against his dark beard.
his breath is on my cheek when he compliments my eyes,
he kisses each lash and i know i am not without love.
he bites my collar and i feel the scruff
of his neatly trimmed beard against my shoulder.
later, my skin in red and hecate arranges the webs with pins to cover the marks.
the spiders snicker at me, they know what is under their silk.
when orpheus joins us again, his lyre creates a humming wind below.
he moves me within it, my feet bouncing to a music that i can only feel if not hear.
eurydice sits at her lover's feet as music braids itself in her hair.
i have not seen her smile since he looked back at her,
and she tells me that it has been too long.
her cheeks hurt most days.
his love is soft and harsh all at once.
his hands create warmth and they do not leave my skin when i am near. on his throne,
my fingers are at his arm.
when he is not receiving the cries of the dead, his lap becomes my throne.
his body knows its queen well.
he causes the blood beneath my skin to boil. I
It is like a drug, the rage, hatred, and sorrow he inspires within me.
i do not understand what he creates in my heart, but i welcome it nonetheless.
some days he smears pomegranate juice across my lips
so that he can remember what i tasted like the first time.
my mouth is a spring he quenches his thirst with; my tongue is never dry.
his kisses do not taste as bitter now as they did in the beginning, when he scared me.
i still fear him, but not as much as he fears me.
it is always dark, the growing blackness.
his eyes are hollow some days, shadows growing under them.
my mother sends him more souls and they shake from the lack of sun.
even when i try to give them my warmth, pulling rays from elysium,
they look at us, the immortal couple, and blame.
i weave blankets with his tiredness, with his grief and regret.
their moans sing him a lullaby, and its melody carris guilt, nostalgia.
in my arms he sleeps and they grow quiet.
in the morning they are thunder and he wakes to my face.
the black of his irises is not sad against the deep brown of his eyes.
i sweep the sand from each corner and he kisses my lips.
we are well.