Pythia: The Process

First the slow ease of weightlessness,
then her lifted body woven
into a cold chrysalis of fern.

Next the spiced scent of burnt laurel,
then a secret smoke of barley and pine
ghosting from a cleft in stone.

Now again the ice gleam of wings —
the melting pull of translucent butterflies
moving her to a tripod,

now the bleating sacrificial goat,
then her own limbs trembling as
the freezing pin-pricks of Apollo's voice

sprinkled through her organs
and breathed her out of herself
into a dim beat of thrown pebbles —

into the pulse of words.
Again she bent over a bowl of clear water
as it whitened into foam —

the particles of time dissolved
into a thunder of before now after
rising from the temple floor.

Then the priest spoke and trance
released her, breath by breath.
Then her own music began.

Copyright © 2004 Rita Signorelli-Pappas All rights reserved
from The Literary Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission