Snakes, Statues, Gods
In the slowly-expanding Goddess series, the Medusa:
Medusa
Come, Medusa, statue-maker,
and I will be Poseidon.
No temple safe
from the tides.
Surge and cast off
those veils,
So our eyes might meet.
Sing your sister’s song
as my flesh calcifies.
Kiss the advancing rock.
And take pleasure
on it’s immutability.
The eyes,
the eyes must be the last, to see.
Or the hands, to feel,
Or the lips, to kiss,
Or the tongue, to whisper…
Memory is its own appeal
and your eyes cannot be richer green
nor your hair more golden.
No, we will fasten the veils close,
and forge manacles of coral,
chains of sea-foam:
my hands no higher
than the curve of your neck.
Or come and be Scheherazade.
Weave tales of love and intrigue
and the fragrant gardens of Persia:
One thousand and one
reprieves.