Raegen Pietrucha, "Transfiguration of Medusa" 

I. Duplicitous Blood

Once, my blood moved nothing like red; then, 
ache cut down to the veins, overthrew 

the blue liquid my body breathes through; 
now that fickle drip sticks 

beneath my skin in purpled pools, confused, seeking 
a new retreat, as if water or wine could take its place,

as if the sun could stretch far enough to touch and warm me,
as if red could travel far enough back 

to resurrect a girl 
felled in the grass at sunset.


II. Defeated Wings

My back strains beneath 
the weight of a black, broke divinity. Holy leaves flap 
in the breeze, but their words don’t restore me.

I can’t flee this beaten body. 
My mind can’t find a peak to soar to; the weight 
of memory tethers me.

III. Unblinking Eyes

I’d saved my gaze 
to search for a hero, 
only to find 
a predator’s conceit.

Now salt singes my sockets. 
Vigilant beacons forget 
the comfort of closing, refuse 
any respite from their watch.

Foolish digits will forget 
how they almost submitted, cringe 
at the thought that they once sought 
another’s. Battle-bruised knuckles 
proved useless, shriek as they bend. 

A new mold must be poured.
I swim my hands in.
To burn in gilt now 
might make me invincible 
once the heat’s depleted.


V. Forking Tongue

He might say, with this spoiled mouth, I slander. But he split me.
My tongue senses the stench he left in stereo. 

Trespasser treading the end of this plank, 
you’re the venom I retch from.


VI. Snaking Mane

No body could bear such warfare. 

My head delivers riddles 

of persistent hisses— 

twisted hair 

springs, slithers, claims 

my skin’s terrain

and crowns my fate—

thanks to him,

the oblivious birth of my serpents.