At twilight Medusa becomes a tree. Wracked branches grasp at the wind hissing through her leaves. She twists under mineral dreams.
2. Little Black Dress
Medusa queues to pay for a little black dress. She’ll knock ’em dead tonight. But, fearing mirrors, she’ll never know how she looks in it.
3. Humdrum I
In Medusa’s kitchen, the kettle hisses and spits. She sits at the table, buttering toast. Her eyes are stony, empty; her mind’s elsewhere.
Medusa is turned into a book, bound in snakeskin. Left on the shelf for years, her pages yellow with age and envy, become brittle. Her secret words will never be read.
Medusa swims through the starless abyss, harpoon in hand, hunting. Her eyes are pearls, her hair a crown of gaping eels.
He glimpses the reflection of a coil of Alice’s hair as she darts between still white soldiers. In the frame of a mirror, she’s vulnerable.
7. Humdrum II
Medusa’s mother-in-law clucks over the baby, pecks his cheek. Afterwards, in the stony silence of the kitchen, Medusa plans a chicken roast.
They sit in their millions, fixed by her stare.
Lost in the Garden of Eden, Medusa chances upon what she takes to be a reflection of herself: a woman, ripe with sin, entwined by a serpent.
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