Days 7 and 8
Night of Mysteries
........That which is spoken.
........That which is enacted.
........That which is shown.
That which is spoken.

These are my lines:

In the beginning, there were
the mountains and seas
crying back and forth for each other
like mother and daughter, two
extremes of the same life,
calling out landmarks.

I am drunk on the barley-water.
I take the symbols from
the basket and move them
into place: pomegranate cake
with many navels, lamp, sword,
woman's comb. Sword pierces
the teeth of the comb, blood-
berries of pomegranates
starve themselves
into navels: the story
between objects is like
a blade of grass
growing out of the gap.
What holds it in the earth
but death? So what if I am
speared, mouth agape
like a fish, telling
everything? Strangely,
it puts me in a true ease
of myself, practicing death.
No husband, no child,
I am a story
the goddess tells
rocking on her heels
by the well.

That which is enacted. We mime the sacred story
from the Mirthless Stone
to Hades' Cave until it opens
out into the dark Telestereion
again. Persephone, beginning
her wait with the dark.
It is like a marriage.
I am thinking of Nicanor,
in our own bed,
tracing me like a blind man.
I go blind in the crevices
of my body, but always,
a small watcher sits on the right
of my heart, riding out
the turmoil.
I unlock the place I can only
imagine. My bones begin
helping. He has already grown
to meet me, my honey-man.
I am thinking of him,
now! The watcher aligns
my bones along the direction
of love, hoping. My chin rests
on his chest. Look up, say
"Rain." Look down, say
"Conceive." We repeat this
over and over. Great gongs
are rung like thunder.
A perfect burst of sun falls on
the tip of the grain as it
breaks the earth. All this
is enacted. Great fires are lit
on the roof. It is as if I
step out into light, into my
mother, her face dark against
the bright sky. I recognize
my white shoots emerging, tender
enough to eat. Something
has taken place. I can't hold onto
grief. The threads of my coming
and going have woven a new
name for me, the strong one,
out of which I step into silence.

.......
.......

That which is shown.
This is the shaft of dawn through the roof
....... of the windowless Telesterion.

This is the stalk of wheat held to the light,
.......hairs like an insect, alert.

This is the flower of the stalk, nine baskets,
.......the flame of baskets on the stalk.

These are the wheat berries, cradled at that
.......height, shaken to earth, washed with earth.

This is the loss of memory, the flesh caved in,
.......the hushed place of caving in,
.......the stubborn word to mark the place.

I am Cleo, living in Agrae. I have a husband,
.......a child, pots and vessels for cooking,
.......a good house, an olive tree, two cats.

Oh Goddess, oh breasts, oh teeth, oh my sharp basket
.......of bones, oh sad clothes, oh bright morning
.......ritual of putting on the clothes,

....... it is morning, one after the other
.......things are lifted from the dark, each object

....... comes to my mind, perfect; then comes back
.......to itself, dear, and growing old.

Page 10

	Days 7 and 8 Night of Mysteries ........That which is spoken. ........That which is enacted. ........That which is shown. That which is spoken. These are my lines: In the beginning, there were the mountains and seas crying back and forth for each other like mother and daughter, two extremes of the same life, calling out landmarks. I am drunk on the barley-water. I take the symbols from the basket and move them into place: pomegranate cake with many navels, lamp, sword, woman's comb. Sword pierces the teeth of the comb, blood- berries of pomegranates starve themselves into navels: the story between objects is like a blade of grass growing out of the gap. What holds it in the earth but death? So what if I am speared, mouth agape like a fish, telling everything? Strangely, it puts me in a true ease of myself, practicing death. No husband, no child, I am a story the goddess tells rocking on her heels by the well. That which is enacted. We mime the sacred story from the Mirthless Stone to Hades' Cave until it opens out into the dark Telestereion again. Persephone, beginning her wait with the dark. It is like a marriage. I am thinking of Nicanor, in our own bed, tracing me like a blind man. I go blind in the crevices of my body, but always, a small watcher sits on the right of my heart, riding out the turmoil. I unlock the place I can only imagine. My bones begin helping. He has already grown to meet me, my honey-man. I am thinking of him, now! The watcher aligns my bones along the direction of love, hoping. My chin rests on his chest. Look up, say "Rain." Look down, say "Conceive." We repeat this over and over. Great gongs are rung like thunder. A perfect burst of sun falls on the tip of the grain as it breaks the earth. All this is enacted. Great fires are lit on the roof. It is as if I step out into light, into my mother, her face dark against the bright sky. I recognize my white shoots emerging, tender enough to eat. Something has taken place. I can't hold onto grief. The threads of my coming and going have woven a new name for me, the strong one, out of which I step into silence.

....... .......
	That which is shown. This is the shaft of dawn through the roof ....... of the windowless Telesterion. This is the stalk of wheat held to the light, .......hairs like an insect, alert. This is the flower of the stalk, nine baskets, .......the flame of baskets on the stalk. These are the wheat berries, cradled at that .......height, shaken to earth, washed with earth. This is the loss of memory, the flesh caved in, .......the hushed place of caving in, .......the stubborn word to mark the place. I am Cleo, living in Agrae. I have a husband, .......a child, pots and vessels for cooking, .......a good house, an olive tree, two cats. Oh Goddess, oh breasts, oh teeth, oh my sharp basket .......of bones, oh sad clothes, oh bright morning .......ritual of putting on the clothes, ....... it is morning, one after the other .......things are lifted from the dark, each object ....... comes to my mind, perfect; then comes back .......to itself, dear, and growing old.