| poetryrepairshop 04.02:015
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MARGARET C. SZUMOWSKI Self-Portrait in a Helicopter
She wants to pray, but Hades won't let her.
He's got her. When he calls, she'll go into the dark,
hitchhike, even if it's miles.
"Walk the 20 miles to my house, Persephone."
I can land on a slip of paper, I tell myself.
Why wasn't I able to find her that whole night?
Maybe it was the false address and phone number.
I landed the helicopter carefully on the mayor's roof
and crept down the back stairs.
I thought it was his son Hades again, the one covered
with a green tattoo. An undercover agent, I crept
around the city, knocked at doors, looked everywhere,
avoiding the attack dogs. I even lifted
the manhole covers, searched the alleys.
Sometimes I enjoy my helicopter its churning whirring
turning relaxes me after another day of looking for her
at Hades Barbecue, Hades Rave, the Raving Lunatic's
Dance Hall, the Opium Den.
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