Me, The Wife: Versions of Medusa

One day it will come to this:

Me, in the cave
of our kitchen,
flexing and wet,
music so loud
the walls throb, me
slicing meat
with the biggest knife
you've ever seen,
for a devil stew
you're afraid to eat,
certain I've chopped up
the children or worse. Or

me, upstairs, in our dark
bedroom, eyes
drifting and mystic,
candle and incense smoke
throat-choking thick, me
stammering prophecy
from the great omphalos
of our bed: every way
in is also a way out.
Evidence of ropes, every
nail a different color. Or

me, instead, outside
ground down into the brown
earth of our garden,
chanting for rain and shaking
the root bone of a white rose,
my face bruised
and streaked, my hair
clotted with weeds.

And when it does,
get the mirror,
the reflective shield,
oh my clever Perseus,
even the flat side
of your shining sword.
But do not look upon this;
you will not live to tell.

Copyright © 2006 Lynnell Edwards All rights reserved
from Smartish Pace
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission