Katabasis
- Apr 25, 2025
- 2 min read
by Eric Pankey
At the pace roots grow, I make a descent into the depths but with no exit plan. If there is a hell to harrow, so be it. If in digging, magma is released, and lava flows downward to the sea, so be it. If the shades will not be coaxed forward by sacrifice or bribe, so be it. Downward to darkness, like a drowned man with stones in his pockets.
: :
Was it night fears or fever that embodied me, burned a thousand scriptures onto my retina, that dull gray slate onto which things are written, incised, or engraved? Permanent yet somehow inaccessible? Stress determined the measure, the length of the possession, the night’s uncharted expanse. Now I lay me down. Now and forever, I added to the prayer. My soul the size of a whisper, as quick as a whiplash, as the wings of what I hoped were angels sequestered in the periphery. Now I lay me down. Now.
: :
East of here: the night, noisy with a skulk of foxes. The past leaks through the present’s porous membrane. A waterfall shapeshifts in and out of light: rush and spray, clash and overlap, reflection giving way to stone and moss. Can I shed my shame as a snake sheds its skin? A tree stump’s new growth entwines the lodged axe head. I come prepared: a libation allows the dead to speak. A sugar cube on the palm tempts the horse nearer. A seeker, I close my eyes, count to ten, ready or not.
: :
I encode, encrypt to make secret intention, whether hex or spell, glyph or sigil: language spoken to speak the world into being, yet cloaked, shrouded, concealed, by its very name.
: :
I forget how much time has passed between acts or how in the next chapter a new generation will follow the same, seemingly fated, path of their forbearers. I forget the pleasure in pattern, in repetition. The morning is contained by the pace of the sun, a distance measured by the shrill of a jay’s call. Sometimes words like Amen or O or Hallelujah sit unspoken, and I can taste them there on the tongue: a plum almost too ripe, the bitter of parsley, the flawlessness that is salt. A scent lingers. Perhaps burnt eucalyptus meant to clear the air? Other elusive remnants remain unidentified, like some ash darker than shadow, ash bees disperse from field to field after a battle, where the hero, distraught, descends into the underworld unguided, to consult the shades on some errant errand.
Eric Pankey is the author of many collections of poetry, most recently VANISHMENTS (Slant Books 2025).
