by Bridget Rawding
Medusa’s Relics
The first to set his sights on me after tried hymns,
but the dissonance struck too similar—
his chords, always choked.
The next pledged devotion,
but another’s portrait dropped from his pocket—
his fingers, perpetually outstretched.
Then one came who tried to hide beneath my pane,
but he didn’t see the glass was already cracked—
his fractures, natural.
But it’s been so long, and there have been so many,
it’s hard now to recall how it first felt
to witness the twist seize skin
like ivy, realizing I was the root.
For a while, I’ll admit I could live
with hunting understudies;
that seemed the best I could do,
marked for this dark art, my nemesis
too clever, avoiding this perimeter.
I’d settle for some substitute
for justice, torment other gluttons
ignoring the warnings.
I once wished a tender
face could exist with me. But now
I know better. Men keep advancing;
the same gaze awaits; everything
petrifies. This is no life.
No one wishes for kisses that shock white.
Raegen Pietrucha writes, edits, and consults on creative and professional bases. Her chapbook, An Animal I Can’t Name, took first place in the 2015 Two of Cups Press’ competition. She received her B.A. in creative writing from the University of Arizona and her M.F.A. in poetry from Bowling Green State University, where she was an assistant editor for Mid-American Review. Her poetry has been published in Cimarron Review, Puerto del Sol, Cold Mountain Review, and other journals. You can connect with her at raegenmp.wordpress.com.
Bridget Rawding is a librarian and writing instructor in the greater Boston area. In both her writing and photography, she is drawn to the juncture between image and text. She has an MFA in creative nonfiction from the Mountainview Low-Residency MFA program at Southern New Hampshire University, and resides in Lawrence, Massachusetts.