The lick of blood I gave her insufficient
to calm Medusa's raging need for stone,
the proffer of my unflinching gaze more than bitter,
less than gall; she mocked my open hands.
She could not believe I was content
To sit upon her shore and hear her stories,
coral songs caverns old brilliant with
The silvered souls of failed heroes.
She could not risk where I saw beauty
seeing only sin and scales, more
loathe to look at her self again and learn
the serpents were her own guilty myth.
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