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.”
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