by Clara Blackwood
You are not Hades.
Not the smothering earth that will engulf
and imprison me.
Nor the depressive in his suicidal hovel
I’ll attempt to save.
Yes, that’s you.
I rolled the polyhedral dice
and received a boon:
Before I was playing with
I could straddle the spectrum
with my liminal nature,
wear the grey robe of exigency,
while the hourglasses lined up like dominoes
and became progressively miniature.
You are the steward of the forest,
the one at the centre of the round dance
who does not abuse his power.
I’ll forgive the time you moved an apple
with your mind,
or startled the milkmaid
by pretending to be a stool.
— from Juniper Volume 1, Issue 2