Text and image by James Knight
At twilight Medusa becomes a tree. Brittle branches grasp at the wind hissing through her leaves. She twists under mineral dreams.
2. Little Black Dress
Medusa queues to pay for a little black dress. She’ll knock 'em dead tonight. But, fearing mirrors, she’ll never know how she looks in it.
3. Humdrum I
In Medusa’s kitchen, the kettle hisses and spits. She sits at the table, buttering toast. Her eyes are empty; her mind’s elsewhere.
Medusa is turned into a book, bound in snakeskin. Left on the shelf for years, her pages yellow with age and envy. Her secret words will never be read.
Medusa swims through the starless abyss, harpoon in hand, hunting. Her eyes are pearls, her hair a crown of gaping eels.
He glimpses the reflection of a coil of Alice’s hair as she darts between still white soldiers. In the frame of a mirror, she’s vulnerable.
7. Humdrum II
Medusa’s mother-in-law clucks over the baby, pecks his cheek. Afterwards, in the stony silence of the kitchen, Medusa plans a roast chicken.
They sit in their millions, fixed by her stare.
9. Creation Myth
Medusa is the first monster. She hisses sweet nothings that become the sea. At night, she’s mesmerised by the silver shield of the moon.
Medusa meets the man of her dreams in a hall of statues. She shoots love’s arrow through his heart, then caresses him until he’s rock hard.
11. Humdrum III
She inspects her grey skin in the hand mirror.
Medusa takes up sculpture. Her subject is terror. Her material: life.
Lost in the Garden of Eden, Medusa chances upon what she takes to be a reflection of herself: a woman, ripe with sin, stroking a serpent.
This prose poem appears in "Head Traumas". You can buy the book here.