Medusa
Sandy Benitez
In the courtyard,
I fed you grapes
fresh from the vine.
Poured you boysenberry wine
and scrubbed your dirty feet
until they were pink
as cherry blossoms.
Later, I noticed you sketching
nude figures of women;
their breasts ripe and supple
legs spread wide
revealing desire
in shapes of irises,
furry halved peaches.
Hesitantly, I asked you
why you didn’t draw me.
You replied that you’d seen
enough of me to sate your interest.
Was I that ordinary?
Or did I remind you
of a modern day Medusa,
shaking her reptilian curls
whenever a bad mood arose.
But there was only one monster here.
Mirrors inhabited the empty spaces,
moving faces from wall to wall.
You had looked my way
enough times through the years
and not once did you ever
turn to stone.
