"Rise and approach," 
     says the young queen.
I hesitate.
With my eyes closed, 
     the herdsman's wrinkled old face 
         appears 
         before me 
         just as it had been, 
     when lit by the harvest bonfire, 
     when his resonant voice 
       had risen 
   and dipped 
         and wound 
     through the landscape 
         of his words.
I see my brother's face, too, 
     attentive to the story 
     that would consume his soul...
Of the daughter of all-nourishing Demeter, 
     at play in the meadow 
     in one moment, 
     and in the next, 
         hauled, 
     kicking and wailing, 
through the maw of a new-formed cave.
Of the sunless realm of Lord Haides.
Of the six swallowed seeds.
Of the ruling of Zeus.
Then, 
     from the story's aftermath, 
when the herdsman 
had steered his song from the wheel ruts 
     of a thousand retellings, 
my squinted eyes recall 
     every line of the man's brow 
     as he drew us 
         into his conspiracy.
"The maiden kept a seventh seed," 
     he'd said, 
"with the power 
     to turn 
the wintery seasons 
     of Demeter's grief 
     into a Stygian darkness 
     that could 
         shrivel forests and fields, 
         frost the grasslands, 
         and spread an ice 
             that would 
             never 
             again 
             know 
             springtime."
These fire-bright memories 
     burn 
my inner sight, 
     leaving behind a darkness 
         as deep 
     as the shadows 
of a nighttime farmhouse.
I hear my brother's excited whisper again 
     just as it had wormed its way 
     through the wall 
between our bedchambers.
"Pyrrha, 
     you and I 
     must quest for that seed."
"You would destroy the world?" 
     I'd asked.
"I never would," 
     Lykomedes had laughed. 
"I'd just like to know 
     that I could."
I open my eyes, 
     and rise, 
         never so alone as now, 
     to approach 
the Queen of the Dead.
Greg R. Fishbone
July 2020