thesanctuaryofdemeter

Submitted by Kole Kemple

The river bank that sits before me lies empty as the soil brushes through the whispering pebbles rough on its spine. The souls that cling to my lips only grow worse in their thirst; in my mind they shout at me, the briskness of their screams color my face. Truthfully they stay silent, but I am too struck by my own reflection to accept it

Maybe if I too sit on a cave-covered tripod, breathing like they tell me to, maybe then I would uncover what hides beneath the Telesterion of my mind. Or would I tell myself what I think I want to hear?

Would I laugh again at the truth because it is not heavy enough to be the host of reason?

Their footprints are fresh in my chest, Indented on me as I search for a way to reach them.

I can see the door peeking through the ivy, I’ve even placed my hand through the gaps it tries to hide; but as I reach them I turn back. Do I really want to leave?

Why am I comfortable losing myself to the Sanctuary of Demeter? Her moss covers my brain, fogging my judgment as I nod at my surroundings. Can no one else see the appeal of the mystery? The secrets that not even centuries can tell?

Why should history tell us everything?

Why is that expected?

Nothing is sacred, but maybe somethings are meant to be.

I guess I will lie still, bound to my state by the strands of wheat that sew my fingertips to the ground.

Some part of me waits to be dug up, to be uncovered.

Some days I want to rip the threads up, cut them with my teeth, taste the singe the strands leave on my tongue, and tell it all.

Maybe one day I will, if a priestess ignores the warnings of the ritual like I have been praying for her to do.

Until then I continue to breath, I record my own monologue and teach myself Eleusis.

Still the ivy beckons me, begging for me to lift her weight and to see what she covers

But as I try to get up, I forget how to. The wheat is tight on my limbs as her whispers grow louder and louder and louder, and I understand the mysteries of Eleusis, and I know I cannot share them

Submitted by Sam Gardner

Femininity is not synonymous with innocence. The damaging designation of women as “delicate flowers” is one that has always disturbed me. It limits the diverse lived experiences of women and encourages the idea that to be feminine is to be meek. In this watercolor painting, I am presenting a commentary on the criticism of female bawdiness by presenting a bare female body in contrast with a “delicate flower.”