Myths

My youngest days were filled with dreams of Medusa,

her curves mirroring a body familiar to me, hips snaking.

It wasn't until later I learned how she said never to a god

who should be told things he doesn’t want to hear,

whose body should be cursed,

forever looking over his shoulder.

My youngest days were filled with interesting stories

made to brainwash any curious girl.

The water ran from head to toe, mouth sewn shut.

I was shown what happens to women made of floral parts,

made of ovary, ovule, petal.

Some were picked apart

until they no longer bloomed,

they were left broken and blamed.

A "lesson" that ended with something like beheading,

body thrown to the sea,

her mouth hung open, muted scream.

And this must have been when it started—

being reminded in creative ways that I have a body.

In its dress I become a glorified piece of meat

covered in butcher paper;

my eyes are the last thing

to meet his as he greets me;

comments proclaim how great I look after all this time.

I try to focus on her silent confidence,

thickened hide, a backbone made stone.

Like Wisteria, her story twists along forgotten roads,

offers shelter, keeps vigil.

It's something I didn't know I needed,

something that stretches out a branch,

unfurls the lacing that binds lungs,

frees tied hands.

Sometimes I smell that sea salt on the wind—

something similar to her that still lives.

I hear it underwater, that untamable scream.

See a tail, a silky shimmer,

feel a caress of ghostly hair,

hear a bare-chested song

that burns bones with longing—

I know these are just stories,

but they echo through time,

answer hushed voices,

point out myths untrue.

***

Kimberly Thornton works in education and has a degree in sociology. Find her poetry in Carve, Fox Paw Literary, Etched Onyx Magazine, and Up the Staircase Quarterly. In Arizona, she's working on living a life with less. Find more on her pseudo-website: medium.com/@kimberlybetweenstanzas