me and Hel

by Raven Kaldera

Death sits in your kitchen chair

across the table wrapped in darkness.

You cannot see under Her

robes to the bones and the screaming and

it is just as well. Her finger flicks in derision.

I have not come for your body.

You relax, a mistake. I have

come for your soul.

Much worse. You tremble. Write,

She says, pointing to paper

and pencil. Write all the things

about which you are ambivalent.

The things you love and hate both. Those which

snap you by reflex into old patterns. Write.

You write, you

weep. Like a mother wondering

which of her delinquent sons

will go to jail forever. Lover, child,

career, friends, causes.

Pieces of flesh. You

set down the pencil. One,

She says. You may keep one

as a keepsake. All others must go.

It is the bones and the screaming

now, inside you. You consider

offering Her your body, instead.

Would you die for these ambivalences?

Which of your fingers will you cut off,

which of your children will you present

with a sacred case of survivor guilt?

You wish to Hel it was

Her consort sitting there; He might

urge this on you, scowl and

stand tapping His foot, for years, even,

but He would not grab you by the scruff and

pull you through the gate

ready or not here we come. He is the

Voice that Urges, She is the Force

That Compels. She has no patience.

You will not be permitted

the luxury of confusion and fretting.

One, She says. All others must

Go. And when they go, they will be

Gone. This is the Real Thing.

There is no Do Over, no Only Joking.

You are allowed three seconds

then you must drop the weight.

For the gate through which you must

pass is no great portal

it is as tight as the neck of Her womb and

there is no room for heavy luggage.

You must be ready to fly. For you see,

She says, and it is the last

explanation you will get,

all else must be taken on faith,

Someday you will stumble onto the rocky road

that is your true path

and the fall would have killed you

if you hadn’t been traveling light.