Persephone's Mask by Tara Avery

In this realm of shallow, torpid chill,

far from the flutter of angel's wings

each finger can move.

I can pull the ring off my finger,

I can toss it to the ground.

Of its own indifferent accord,

my foot crushes it.

It is only copper and glass;

sparkling beams of refracted light

blind me --

bind me in dreams of innocence.

There is no emotion here,

in the empty realm behind the paper-thin mask.

Ribbons blow and tangle in my hair,

wrap around my neck,

choking with long, silky fingers.

To free myself I must cast aside my mask.

But I cannot,

for the mask hides my ugliness --

and to cast away the beauty

would banish me forever from the masquerade.

I would be alone.

Alone, with a mass of crumpled silk

and tattered ribbons crushed in my hand.

I cannot.

The ribbons choke me,

choking . . .

and no one sees because my porcelain face

has a painted, pretty pout.

People see it as a smile,

ignoring the visible crystal drops

that hide at the very corner

of my dark blue;

haunted blue;

night-sky blue eyes.

I have the eyes of Persephone

who has already eaten the pomegranate

and the seeds are cold,

leaden within her belly.

From the depths of Hades

I can see the earth draped in snow.

I will not sip the water of Lethe.

I will not forget.

The question:

What do I have left to remember?

A mask,

cool and crumpled beneath fingers

I have only now remembered how to use

and I find that I am more alone now

that I ever dared fear before.

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