By Matthew Pique-Sparrow
Medusa cut her hair,
cutting locks, she
left her dead
snakes in the sink.
Some still have
some motion left
in them, the last
ones for the
moment, this motion,
kicks and starts
sliently, those snakes
stare, stark-black
glass-eyed, rough as
rubber, they look
lurkingly, those bead-eye–
just about dead.
the scissors look
threatening, look
grease-dipped, flesh-
smeared, oil-smeared,
the blades look men
acing, the blades
are
balanced on
the sink`s white lip,
black handled
and rusty-silver.
Medusa catches her slit-eyes,
in the glass, reflecting the
reptile skin, scales and milk
soft cold cold middle,
she shrinks away from it.