Today's poem is by Simone Muench
The Melos of Medusa
It's the jitters that give them a hard-on!
Helene Cixous I once was a beautiful woman;
now it's come down to tricks and stones,
the wick of my voice sputtering
curses in the Mediterranean breeze.
I once believed that voice
was sustenance: beauty and weight
of a pomegranateits wine-colored chambers,
a thousand rooms to lose
yourself in. Now I know
no one was listening but the goats
as they ate their way through night's
detritus: an orgy where men sang
and drank while women, thin as mist,
whispered on the periphery. Lovely
mouths gagged with pollen.
Perseus, as you move your back
towards me, I want to lick
the delicate skin where armor
doesn't sheath the elegance
of your neck as you peruse
my reflection in your shield.
I want you to see me, to stop
pursuing my image. It wasn't my face
that turned those poor men to rock.
It was the burn of meeven
my navel, a thimble of fire. My hair,
a catastrophe of fiery curls, not coils
of water moccasins. But the myth remains
the same: someone is saved; someone
dies a terrible death.
We know the rules.
My song that has gone so long
unheard will taunt you in your sleep
even as you sweep your sword
across my neck like a finger
tracing its own silence.
Copyright © 2003 Simone Muench All rights reserved
from Notebook. Knife. Mentholatum.
New Michigan Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission
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