Rape Crisis Center: A Myth

A nice dead lady asked me my name:
Persephone, from up there, I said, pointing.
Hell being what it is, the waiting room was packed
with mortals and goddesses alike, shamed.
She led me to a room where a swab
took DNA to confirm Hades the repeat offender
who hot-rodded his chariot and stallions
to snatch me to the underworld.
When I talked about how the ground opened up
I sobbed but did not mention my mother
running after us with greedy fingers.
All of a sudden everyone wanted me;
now what I wanted was a pill to cast his seed
into perpetual winter. The next time
he wouldn’t have to come get me
nor would there be a report to file.
I’d be a girl used to justify seasons,
a reason for why there’s never enough bread.
I’m okay, I said, skittering off the table.
Oh yes, someone’s here to pick me up.
He’s out in the parking lot having a smoke.
Call my mom, tell her not to worry.