By Eden Ramos
This building, perhaps a shrine once,
was
then
converted to a co-ed halfway house—rehabilitation was not yet a privilege—
later,
then,
in the typical progression of
experiments in philanthropy:
Foreclosure.
Commence our play!
Our condemned building playhouse Inanna—the stage free—
stairway, rooftop, makeshift presbytery absorbing
a July twilight’s glimmer
through rotting wood-encased windows
undesirous of a lighting crew,
acoustics reliant on City sponsored construction
all for which we kneel in thanks,
as
would
the
exiled
Enheduanna
under the ruins of ancient Mesopotamia
if she could witness,
or,
through some archeological miracle,
hear,
through bluetooth,
our interpretation of her Underworld Goddess
hungry, too, for emancipation.
Like Mozart’s Pamina
and I demanded (I met someone from Hollywood once, published a story, somewhere online, don’t they know who I am?)
they let our heroine sing—and why shouldn’t they?—Ach, ich fühl’s, es ist verschwunden, Ewig hin der Liebe Glück!—when Ninatta and Kulitta bestow such gifts, ignorant of time or place.
And is this not what we have all paid pittance for?
To find ourselves so shepherded about.
Investors (for lack of a better term),
as we all are
in
the inconvenience of underfunding
through tax or otherwise.
In this makeshift shrine (a redundant description, the argument can be made)
we have orchestrated
Her decent
Into The Underworld
(the banister, leading to where basement supplies are stored, will splinter even
the most calloused hand)
Down into the poorly-ventilated cave where
her fate will be sealed,
providing fate is not too impressive a word
for such gaudy pantomime.
But what would you expect?
You reveled in the trek to our little production, no?
Three different subways to an outer borough conveys commitment.
What I didn’t imagine was just how
they’d manage to pull off
our idol in stilettos.
The art class pyre!
All in commercial lingerie. And this is what Adrienne called “Artistic trans-cultural Fusion.”
But this city, too, is cemented atop rubble and a gendered violence
which we simply exercise as Inanna bears witness to Ereshkigal’s wail for the dead.
We reproduced the elaborate denouement—grey iron gates—spray painted cardboard—rubber snakes, a last minute Cleopatra headdress purchased online, and construction paper drawn spirals of fire—honorably
Until
a first year sociology student crossed that undivided fault-line
separating viewer from viewee
carrying a canteen
Proceeding
to
drench the the display, cleansing, then,
her shoulders…
Was that the smell of Butane?
she lifted her vessel
Water for fire. Fire-starved, fire-sanctioned
She doused her raven hair, razor-scarred arms
as our anxious audience waited in the wings (makeshift pew) and I
In the old “Men’s Only” (sign fading on the door) bathroom, rushed to chase klonopin with city swill.
And it is now that time. We will all consume the elixir of dominion, so
“Let her speak!” I demanded in my benzo fog.
“We will all die,” she shrugged, and might anyone have a cigarette?
Eden Ramos is a writer from New York City. Her work has appeared in Luna Luna Magazine, The Citron Review, Neon: A Literary Magazine, BlazeVOX, and other journals. In addition to writing, she works for a membership organization for women in cybersecurity. You can follow her on twitter @emmaedenramos
