by Clara Blackwood
She held me captive some forty years,
until the can’t take, break of
the psyche, egg-white death
clamouring for release,
until I lived the patterns
beaten and distorted and bored.
Where did the equilibrium go?
Was it something I never possessed?
Assailed by the constant pitter-patter
of unseen disturbance,
like a group of Plaths
at the bottom of the ocean.
To be claimed by a fearful Goddess
is to hold tension between opposites,
to exist in a state of heavy diffuseness,
a constant stranger in the day-blooming world.
And what happens when you reach
the end of the descent
when grief, terror and ego dissolve.
How do you bury the Mistress of the Dead?
— from Juniper Volume 1, Issue 2