Of Athena, Medusa

by Saffron Sener

I’ve never been comfortable with the Greek/Roman tradition surrounding the rape of Medusa by Poseidon in Athena’s temple. As the story goes, Athena became so enraged that Medusa was attacked in her temple that she punished Medusa by turning her hair into snakes. Essentially, she blamed and cursed Medusa for her rape.

It’s almost like Poseidon himself thought that up, this narrative is so disgustingly male. Ruined by Ovid’s retelling of the Medusa tale and the repetition of this in the centuries following, the story of Medusa that I ascribe to is not one of female betrayal. It’s one of unification, protection, rage, and solidarity. So, I’ve reimagined it here, in this poem:





“It was on this stone,
your temple,
here.
Him,
Poseidon.”  


Stand with me.
Stand.
We must always be standing.

Do not bow to me.
You may never bow again.
The ground is not the place
for you or for anyone like
us.

Raise your head,
and look at me.
It will be the last time you can,
sister.

Grabbing, taking,
consuming, ruining.
The violence upon you
is often felt by those like
us.

(at the hands of my own uncle
who is like my father
and my brothers
and the others.
it runs in the family,
or is it just their nature?)

They pierce.
Froth at us.
Violate.
Walk away
with our bodies strewn on
ground,
See us as open,
as the ready sufferer of their
desires, entitlement,
violence.

This is not
us.

We are not flowers to be picked,
lambs to be caught,
bodies to be taken.

I am giving you a gift
Like my helmet,
Like my spear.
You, too, will have a weapon against
those whose existence is protection enough.

This head of snakes,
biting
writhing
full of rage
and wrath
and venom.

Not punishment,
but security.
Not a burden
but a blessing,
sister.

A warning,
A curse,
A symbol for the pain you must carry
for the pain we all must carry.
They will run,
friend or foe,
enemy or lover.
This is the gift I am giving you.
I am sorry,
sister.

Go.
Look into the eyes of those who pierce
and trap them in their disgrace.
Remind them from whose body
it was that they came
and from what body they have
forsaken.

Relegate them to stone.
I’ll shatter them,
their ashes will blow across the Earth,
forgotten,
sent back to a natural place.
Where we will walk on them.
They will be the dirt
where we grow our flowers
and raise our lambs.

Go, sister,
and look.

“It was on this stone,
your temple,
Here.
From you,
Athena,
I become myself,
Medusa.”​