Serpentine Reflections by A. D. Walke

I am queen of dusty earth,

poisonous heat, and

a profound nothingness.

My temple burns

on the edge of hell,

the Phlegethon pouring forth

fumes and smoke

to obscure a forgotten sky.

It is a liminal space sought

only by heroes and fools—

the boundary of Hades’ realm,

he a more just ruler than his

violent and philandering brothers.

Stone men offer me tribute

with crumbling fists,

broken cocks, and

dead hearts.

With eyes I consume sacrifice.

First comes hubris—strutting,

confident in his control.

Then, their ignoble intent,

pierced through with

unseen arrows.

Finally, sharp, sour fear—

when, stiff and impotent,

they finally behold what

they have created.

All pay the debt of the great thief

who sunk my stars in the wine-dark sea.

It was another time,

another temple,

another goddess:

sisters in cotton shifts

laughing in the white sun,

work-browned arms swimming

through sticky, salted air,

dancing in lacy foam

embroidering the water.

I stayed behind

to tend the fires.

But a crack of thunder called me

outside to a darkening sky,

a threat in the chill wind.

Tide took on substance,

grasped greedily at my ankles,

dragged my legs from beneath me, then

crushed my body against the marble steps.

Cold brine washed

my Lady’s name from my lips,

filled my nose,

burned my eyes,

pushed insistently between my legs.

Blind, violated, drowning…

Gray gulls cried in the cloudy sky.

I could not.

Tears belonged to the sea,

and I had my fill of salt.

I pulled my battered body

into the shadowy temple.

Heavy, bloodied legs

trailed behind me like

a land-murdered mermaid.

Panic mingled with pain—

I must rekindle the fires,

relight the snuffed torches…

Then the flames flared to life

of their own accord.

My Lady tended my wounds

as one of my sisters—

ablutions,

anointing,

absolution.

How tenderly she sealed

my reddened thighs

with golden scales,

combed my damp hair

with her battle-scarred fingers

leaving behind the

susurrations of serpents,

our minds now one.

She kissed my torn lips,

my bruised eyelids,

and blessed my vengeance

with immortality.

I sense now his approach

like the dread of those

long ago storm clouds,

like menace in bitter salt air.

He’s heard the tellers of tales

call me cursed, as if

beauty could ever be a virtue.

Once fair-cheeked Medusa,

he believes me chastised

by my Goddess, but

punishment is always

a matter of perspective.

The boy savior of Argos

comes to take my power

for his own, but he will learn

in my domain of solitude and stone

why gods fear to tread.