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The Son-in-Law from Hell

by LindaAnn LoSchiavo

Clients complain about their sons-in-law,
That monster a beloved daughter wed.

When I’m asked, “Do you have a child?” I know
You’re carrying some in-law grievance. My
“Kids” are two Pomeranians, cutesters.

It isn’t businesslike to be honest.
I smile and nod, displaying no photos.

Some mothers were unhinged, insisting a
Benighted son-in-law was — yes! — from Hell.

My preconceived ideas come to mind first.
Most psychics hear relationship concerns.

Take Leda’s mom, whose daughter was seduced,
Abiding sexism from Zeus, that cad.
That swan maneuver took her by surprise!

Avoiding married gods is for the best.
But I’m here to predict, not to upbraid.

This lady styled herself “Earth Mother” when
Trying for next-day booking. Pushy bitch.

Turns out I had a cancellation. She
Arrived on time, attired all in green.
Her palms were calloused, I noticed right off.
Who is this creature with no fashion sense?

But then she wept. New seedlings sprouted there
In every wet spot. Her identity’s
Apparent. But I wait for her to say
Why she’s come. “Crystal ball or Tarot cards?”
I ask. “How long before my daughter is
Returned? Vile beasts kidnapped my only child.”

Connecting with the psychic energies,
Allowing scrying to work, takes a while.

I need some quiet time, but Ceres talks
Incessantly. Persephone is pure.

While picking flowers, earth’s crust split apart.
A strange black chariot appeared and dragged
The maiden somewhere. Zeus claimed not to see.

Impossible since he’s omniscient, right?
Mischief’s afoot on Mount Olympus. Zounds.

My concentration puts me in a trance.
The scene replays for me. I don’t rat out
Two witnesses — the Sun God Helios
And Zeus — but keep my focus on the girl,
Distressed and screaming. Sound leads me across
Dividing lines between alive and dead.

I see her present — and what lies ahead.
“Six pomegranate seeds he’ll trick her with.
It’s Dis, whose kingdom is the Underworld.”

“Can you prevent this?” The orbuculum
Looks like it might ignite. Hellfire spits,
Enraged. And Ceres sees it, too. “Damn him!”

My clients often hate what I foretell.
She left. But not before she tipped me well.

Copyright © 2020 by LindaAnn LoSchiavo

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