Mortal Goddess
by Helen Zhang, 9th October, 2023 

a woman raises her 

arms to the heavens, 

Poseidon decorates her 

brow with beads 

of foaming sweat, 

ichor drips from her

eyes in a vague imitation 

of tears. the ocean 

returns to her, caresses her 

abalone flesh in its brackish 

palms, paints 

a design of seaweed 

onto her bare chest, 

dances through her

wild black hair, turning

into plumes of stygian 

fire. inhale, exhale, each 

breath is filled with the briny 

sting of a dying woman. her

skin is pallid, Midas laces 

gold through the pale-

ness of her being. she 

cannot breathe through 

the crashing noise, cannot 

see through the heaviness 

of her own blood. it drips, 

rich and thick and warm, 

down her back, a red 

Chinese ink painting 

of waves and loss. 

the woman yearns 

for her mother, screams for 

her father. flitting images 

lost to time, Hades has

stolen them, easily as

the ocean draws breath. 

one more second of this 

endless night, the sky 

is a void of obsidian 

glass, ocean gulps greedily 

at the moon’s wavering light, 

gathering in the crevices 

of its froth. the stars are 

so large here, like real gods 

of burning light aching 

to reach hold of the earth 

and claim it as 

their own. the woman 

begins to float, her memories 

a canvas of wet paint 

smeared into a kaleidoscope 

of indistinguishable color 

by Time’s cruel hands, her 

cheeks flush gold as she 

climbs higher, higher. 

the world fades to a swath 

of blue and green, the stars 

reach hungrily as she 

passes them, she 

is so close to the moon she 

could caress its pearly 

skin, she 

could see how light trips 

and stumbles over 

its porous surface– 

. . .

the woman breaks 

from her reverie, her 

face is saturated with 

tears. a god no more, she 

crumples to the ground 

and weeps.