The Lantern 2015-2016

PAIGE SZMODIS To Apollo Today, it’s time for dusk to fall and cast shadows over your golden arrows, blindingly bright from their time spent in the sun’s spotlight. I am Eileithyia born again— remember, I am the Goddess of Childbirth—I am Artemis; without me, you would be stuck in our mother’s weak womb.

I protect all the young women with silver crescent scars.

We don’t need your golden healing for our open wounds.

Remember, I am the Goddess of the Wilderness.

This island is made of my flesh. I grew mountains out of my hip bones. I pulled the cypress tree from my curved spine to shield the young doe and their robust ribcage antlers. Your pythons and ravens and hyacinths would wither without my forest. And I have waited, too long, hidden in the caverns of my cavities from your bloated sunrays.

Remember, I am the Goddess of the Hunt.

I don’t need sunlight to shoot straight. My bow and arrows pierce your prophecies of peace.

I twist your ambrosia words into silver spears made of my prey’s chipped teeth. Your lyres and hymns only exist to call my nymphs, to twist more thorn bush mazes in the forest.

Remember, I am the Goddess of the Moon.

Come dusk, you must stumble into the waves of my blue blood, tides tugged by my smirking silver crescent. I don’t need your laurels; I cast my own halos from moonlight. My melody resounds enough; I can’t hear your harmony. While your light is contained in lanterns, mine controls the sea.

One day, everyone will rejoice in the dark dawn between the days, when you will fall again, and I will rise from my mountains of bone marrow to see how your sun makes my moon shine brighter, wrapping silver halo reflections around my island, my skin.

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