You drop
again
into the cavern void of light,
pure dark pressing hard upon you,
vacuuming all air from your lungs, faith
vanishing with the bright world.
Hell changes its mask for each of us.
The cavern has no up, no down, no way to go
but within, where the pantry stands bare as prairie winter.
Possessed by stunting panic, mind swirling nevers and forevers,
begging,
‘Please, no.’
And yet.
Here you are.
If, for even a flash of an instant, you could let a finger
reach out, curious though tense,
to the black walls, sloped floor,
whatever it is actually holding you,
is there earth? Is there scent? What sound?
A blessed thought enters.
Persephone.
You say her name aloud,
more weak exhalation than speech,
‘Persephone.’
She gets pulled down by the heel
into the underworld.
‘Persephone,’ rises your whisper.
And with it, the tiny spark of memory
that she, like you, is always, has always been,
released again at the end of winter,
released again into the birth of spring.
And spring must come.