mother medusa

my mother body checks me,
or sometimes gets my sister to
— looking for new scars, new flesh, something to convince us all that this is no punishment,
i

am statuesque. no colour & grotesque. i am art, i tell myself. i am worthy to be looked at, especially this way. this is love. this is love. this is —
trained eyes on the floor, always the floor. medusa couldn’t get me if i was the only person left in the world
or she would say

oh, this one has already been saved. my mother does not sit until the ritual is done & her penance paid. i dare to

breathe & this starts the chant. i brought this upon myself, upon myself, upon myself. i am an

exhibition. a caged animal in the zoo. a circus freak. fun to look at
but not to be. this is love. this is love. this is —

being told to look at her & not being able to move. ah, medusa got me after all, so much hardness in her gaze —
this is what it means, what it means
to be saved.

i am dismissed & can breathe again. sometimes i see a scarf as a snake, writhing down from the scalp, twisted round the neck, tight. i

remember the first time i did that, waiting for my own venom to take me down. to spit through this body, to make me holy again, i was

perseus, new-aged & the first to be slain this time. i was
a child turned into stone from the inside. i taste

the blood & out comes the coral
of the red sea, hissing through
the gullet. the head twists but there’s no decapitation. there will be
more tries later. in time,

i cut off my hair for fear of snakes. i avoid all mirrors in case my eyes do the same. i make new flesh & don’t know how much i weigh. i hiss out poison & wash it away. i don’t tell anyone until it’s too late.

& this is love.
& this is love.
& this is love.