Mania Choephore

Mania, are you Death’s bride,
womb barren from birthing the vengeance-thirsting Furies,
with wings of leather like the bats that flit across the moonless sky
and coiling snakes for hair, and skin pale as bone
bleached by the summer sun?
Or are you the Mistress of Madness,
staring flame-eyed at things others cannot see,
whispering words sharp and strange which others do not wish to hear
– words that cut both the tongue and the ear –
frail form trembling with the effort
of holding back that which your stygian heart conceals,
that which others could not possibly endure?
“Yes,” she nods, voice hollow and distant and barely audible
above the din of Etruscan myths unspoke.