Medusa Reflects On Her Life and Station by David Schwab

They don't all bite. Some squeeze
or swallow whole. Some spit.

And it's a labyrinth, not a maze:
go straight long enough and you're out.
Not that I can leave.

Women can look at me,
but most are too petrified.
So they stone me instead.

When I'm lonely,
I talk to the statues.
We dress up and hold court.
And masques. And trials.

Sometimes, I pluck one out
and sing while it dies,
fixated, helpless,
sanguine, cradled,
alone.

And to think,
I was a good girl
from a nice family
before he raped me.
Now I'm a war criminal.

Or maybe heat-seeking missiles,
holstered, armed, and ready
to strike like ice picks to the eye,
severing vital connections,
fragmenting consciousness,
and devolving the higher mind
to its reptile origins
are the real weapons
of mass destruction.


--David Schwab