Medusa in a Mirror

Female anger sanitized by a male expression
The undulating danger of the monstrous made feminine,
Medusa in a mirror,
The gorgon in the blood,
The nefarious banal,
The shimmering echo of the demon in the throat,
Choked once more into sobriety
By Adam—
Giver of Names,
Arbiter of Shame,
Blameless Judas,
Are you still the only one who can tame
The witch in the woman,
Bottle the marid,
Set fire to the madwoman’s ghost,
And tell her to sit still?

That lick of insolence when you take a woman’s anger into your mouth –
Speaking a spell you don’t believe in –
Boy of flesh,
You have never understood the femininity of ragnarok
But I have.

Beneath the half-lit gas lamps of living in your world,
I, Woman, have bound myself to what is true,
Learning to distrust the light,
I have welcomed only stars, only moon,

Only the way my own eyes glint in mirrors,
When, once again,
You have come for my head.


©K Paige Medina 15 September 2017


The Blood of Trees

Did you learn to lust for
the blood of trees,
sapped from blighted limbs,
the litheness of leaves still
in the unhasty way that trees fall?
Did you let them grow
only to marvel more greatly
at the size of the force
needed to fell them,
or were the bared teeth of your saws
merely bad harmony
to the pathetic sound your fists made
against the trees that you wanted toppled?

Did you see them like spirits,
reaching with their skeletal fingers toward
an unflinching creator?

If they had skins, they might have
looked like dead elephants,

but they were trees,
silent and patient,
bleeding for the amusement and glory
of insignificant men.

©K Paige Medina 30 January 2017

The Land of Mornings

I live in a land of mornings,
where the fog stays low and wild,
and the history is permanent
in the eyes of every child.
It is here that there are windows
peering out on gloomy streets,
And the heaviness of evening
is when star-crossed lovers meet.
Our emptiness is welcomed–
as the empty always are–
by the cold arms of old cities
bearing streets and lights and bars.
It’s the romance of a moment,
but these moments seldom stay,
lingering too long at thresholds,
only then to steal away
with the radiator heat
trailing after crunching soles,
it taps on windows, begging
to be let in from the cold.
But be careful when you let it,
for the walls remember still
shadows of moments past
left to freeze out on the sill.

© K Paige Medina 12/17/2016