Thursday, May 8, 2014

Young Medusa

Each raindrop swoops at my face
pecks at the powder, the paint
My skin peels
I reach to hide myself, my fingers frantic
I must mask this stranger’s face.
What passersby must ponder at this crumbling statue:
a remnant of some ancient Other
a mummy unwrapping, a spawn of Hephaestos
in the rain.

My apologies for the delay, friends. It's been finals week (proctoring exams and helping 50 freshman not freak out is wonderfully full time work), and I'm taking my prelim exams - 3 8-hour-long tests - eek!- starting next week! I might be posting intermittently this month. .. also, the picture is one I took in Budapest, 2008, a few months before I wrote this poem.


Brian Miller said...

ugh. i have had to proctor this week as well...and close out IEPS and ...and...and...more and more each day..ha. what an interesting perspective in this as well...the rain washing away a bit of the mask....smiles...interesting too in how you use medusa who usually will turn others to stone...

Sweeper of Dreams said...

Indeed! I remember thinking, what would Medusa be like transitioning from puberty into adulthood? If you gave her a mirror in her drunken, self-doubt-filled stupor, she'd catch one glimpse of the mess she was before being forever frozen in stone. Which sort of happened in the end in the real story, eh?