The Gorgon Comes For Her Own
Ugliness is so unpredictable.
There are three ways to be beautiful
and thousands to be monstrous.
You should see it was never about the snakes.
The chaos, however, couldn’t be forgiven—
couldn’t be combed down into wet furrows
or spit-licked into swollen rows.
In the photo she has tusks and blood and
flared nostrils. Your finest nightmare
crashing the status, crushing the party.
They’d like to blame someone—preferably her,
for who knows her mother’s secret sin?
You can’t trust hidden influences.
They never wear name tags.
What would you call yourself by—
Loved and not abandoned?
Something worth fighting for?
When the gorgon sings for you
it will be muscle and monsoon. She will
meet your eyes. Who knows how many times
you’ll be bitten, suddenly
known, unhidden.
