I went gladly
to the underworld, never
looking back.
My fear of him was nothing
to the fear I felt
of her.
“Eat,” he said, and smiled.
The berries were sharp
and sweet, my fingers
reddened.
Out there, Mother
closed down the world.
Her fury was not
the fury of fire,
but of ice.
Wherever she went
it was winter — blasted
trees, fallow rock–hard
fields, no berries
anywhere.
The people mourned,
but their tears
could never warm her —
no more than mine.
About the Author: Wendy McVicker lives and writes in the beautiful green hills of Athens, Ohio. In her poetry, she seeks "to honor memory and the slow, deep process of knowing." Her poems have appeared in Appalachian Women's Journal, Confluence, Riverwind, and Whiskey Island, among others. She is a teaching poet with the Ohio Arts Council's Arts in Education program, and has been inciting poetry in schools, libraries, galleries, and community centers since 1987.
Copyright © 2005 by Wendy McVicker. The poem may not be reproduced in any form without the author's express written permission.