Queen of the Dead
Persephone tugged and pulled and twisted
until she had him trained—on a leash. Not
me. My man runs around on me, chases
his own tail, barks at every single, little thing,
pisses wherever he likes. I know my mother’s
waiting for me in heaven because she visits
me in dreams, tells me to stop crying and
tend the roses in her garden. “Don’t cut
your hair,” she says. “It’s your crown, your glory,
your only redeeming quality.” In my kitchen,
my spectral mother chops the heads off carrots,
undresses onions, rips the spine off celery sticks,
boils a pot of caldo on my fiery stove. The aroma
rises in a foggy mist, a thin veil that refuses
to evaporate. It lingers in my mind throughout
the day. Demeter never did this to Persephone.
She didn’t shake her awake and say, “Take care
of that man. Do what you must to feed
his lust. You don’t want him to leave again,
do you?” Does it make me a bad wife
if I do?—if I want him to disappear, to leave
me alone so I can string words together,
knot teardrops beside pearl seeds, wrap
them around my forehead, my neck, my arms,
my wrists—every finger engaged—tangled
in my own creations. I’m sure Demeter never
told Persephone she couldn’t, shouldn’t,
do what she pleased. Not even in dreams.
No—Demeter packed her daughter’s things
herself. She gave Persephone permission to roam
the world, taught her to pull weeds, to grow
her own food, to harvest, to feast. That
wasn’t caldo boiling in Persephone’s kitchen.
No roots grew over her bare feet. I have to
believe, I want to believe, my mother’s still
up in heaven. Because, if she were here,
she would not rouse me just to say, “Put some
lipstick on for God’s sake! Pareces espanto.”
until she had him trained—on a leash. Not
me. My man runs around on me, chases
his own tail, barks at every single, little thing,
pisses wherever he likes. I know my mother’s
waiting for me in heaven because she visits
me in dreams, tells me to stop crying and
tend the roses in her garden. “Don’t cut
your hair,” she says. “It’s your crown, your glory,
your only redeeming quality.” In my kitchen,
my spectral mother chops the heads off carrots,
undresses onions, rips the spine off celery sticks,
boils a pot of caldo on my fiery stove. The aroma
rises in a foggy mist, a thin veil that refuses
to evaporate. It lingers in my mind throughout
the day. Demeter never did this to Persephone.
She didn’t shake her awake and say, “Take care
of that man. Do what you must to feed
his lust. You don’t want him to leave again,
do you?” Does it make me a bad wife
if I do?—if I want him to disappear, to leave
me alone so I can string words together,
knot teardrops beside pearl seeds, wrap
them around my forehead, my neck, my arms,
my wrists—every finger engaged—tangled
in my own creations. I’m sure Demeter never
told Persephone she couldn’t, shouldn’t,
do what she pleased. Not even in dreams.
No—Demeter packed her daughter’s things
herself. She gave Persephone permission to roam
the world, taught her to pull weeds, to grow
her own food, to harvest, to feast. That
wasn’t caldo boiling in Persephone’s kitchen.
No roots grew over her bare feet. I have to
believe, I want to believe, my mother’s still
up in heaven. Because, if she were here,
she would not rouse me just to say, “Put some
lipstick on for God’s sake! Pareces espanto.”
September 2024
Born in Piedras Negras, Coahuila, and raised in Eagle Pass, Texas, Guadalupe García McCall is the national bestselling, award-winning author of several young adult novels, some short stories for adults, and many, many poems. Guadalupe has received the Prestigious Pura Belpre Award, a Westchester Young Adult Fiction Award, the Tomás Rivera Mexican-American Children’s Book Award, among many other accolades. Guadalupe is currently Affiliate Faculty in the MFA Creative Writing program at Antioch University where she teaches Fiction. She lives in San Antonio, Texas, where she is working on four novels coming from Bloomsbury and Tu Books 2024-thru-2027 among many other works-in-progress. Her recent works include the gothic, borderlands novel, Echoes of Grace and the romantasies, Secret of the Moon Conch and Hearts of Fire and Snow, which she co-wrote with friend and colleague Dr. David Bowles.
Art: Kelly Cressio-Moeller, Childhood Faultlines. Mixed media: acrylic, ink, paper, mica flakes on basswood panel, 2023.