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.