MEDUSA'S LOVER

By A. M. Rossiter

I am she:

wicked, wretched,

        poisoned thing, crawling

             aphid skin, living our only dirty

                      sin – that and saying

                                                          no.

                                                    Furore is

          a hymn to dance

                    and ring – naked

                 on the ear – a word,

                                      a quake –

                           to break, shake,

                                        remake –

                                   beg – hold –

                                   and wait…

     where uprising snakes beneath

                                starved lips - and fangs, watched

                                             only by men of stone

                           and ghost devils

                    atoned in legends

                             where bleeding women

                             die without their heads,

     reds of berries painted

             on shields

       thirsty for skin

to yield, or for blood

          on steel

to spill to satiate

         the reverie

      of virile, viscid

                     superiority.

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