Gods and Matriarchs



Ancient ruins in Greece

what is this vague leash— this necklace weightier, tougher, sharper than

iron that such matriarchs of Gods hold on their foolish poets, 

barely myth-ed, fleshy, soft, and weak, sloppy and confused— naive and 


loyal, emotional, martyr-ed, His firm support or His downfall, 

dainty, dolled, demigod daughters? Is that too disrespectful a 

question? pardon me, Matriarchs, I’m just being honest when I 


say you are troubled, tormented about her or of something she 

might do— that you know she will do. Tell me why it is so that Gods 

release Their Sons— allow Their hearts and sandaled feet to fly in fields


the fields and face foes for flashing fame to carry crusades and slay 

slimy, several-headed snakes— knowing that there’ll be divine applause

But stretch her toes to the stars, mothers warn her of gravity


ever know why Icarus was a son? Because when he fell, it

was a terrific tragedy— and when she unknots her hand from 

demeter’s fingers wrapped around her in a not-so-delicate, 


but no-less-intricate, woven, stinging-from-sharp-finger-nails and 

tangled handhold— when, finally, the girl slips silently into 

the Underworld, Darkness, expanse of TV-noise dialed down to five


stuffy suffocating. Hold your breath, young daughter, persephone. 

witness the mundane galactic, all-encompassing, all there is, 

blinding but not white — heavenly, scorching, sweat-inducing, — it’s hellish, 


she is staring into the wide mouth of God— she needs to breathe. Breathe! 

There is no air, but that’s okay, you’re used to it, persephone— 

it is deep and dark, wet, not boxed, what are walls?— what’s sobriety?


bare your teeth— is that a smile?— it’s laughable, subliminal space

when She licks her fingers of The Pomegranate seeds, She’s not shocked 

by another clad of iron and a soft handkerchief from Hades

by Jenn Uche ’22, Creative Writing Editor