After the lord of the dark world carried her away, she was never
again the gay young creature who had played in the flowery meadow
without a thought of care or trouble. She did indeed rise from the
dead every spring, but she brought with her the memory of where she
had come from; with all her bright beauty, there was something
strange and awesome about her. She was often said to be “the maiden
whose name may not be spoken.”
—Edith Hamilton, in Mythology

Mother, I had a vision of you:
in what distant future did I see
your body shrouded in light,
jewelled and dusted in light?

A premonition, I thought,
of a future I’d have no part of,
where death overtook love
and love was powerless

to draw the loved one back.
For years I never spoke of it,
but now you lie in a room
that is not a room,

neither cryp ...

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