by Olivia Fortier
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“Self-portrait in the style of Medusa” by Andrea Mantegna c. 1474 Uffizi Gallery. Photo via Web Gallery of Art |
Though afraid of the water,
my mother hand-scooped the lake
to wet my skin before she blew up
water wings, and slid them to the tops
of my arms.
I floated on the surface of a calm lake,
the flotsam of a failed marriage;
my father had sided with the man
who’d raped my mother, when he,
the rapist, denied any wrongdoing,
as rapists often do, and it was then
my mother lost her head.
From the water, I watched my mother
walk the beach in search of driftwood
for garden ornaments. An hour later,
her pile was small, her harvest thin,
so I swam back to shore to help her,
my skin burned from the sun’s reflection
on the lake’s mirror top. Seeing her error,
my mother glossed me with sunscreen.
Then, stony-faced, as single mothers
must be at times, doing everything alone,
she removed my wings, deflated them,
and withdrew into herself.
When it comes to driftwood,
gnarls and knots are lovely decorative
features. Dead tree roots are rare finds;
initially disturbing to look at, yes, but
given a couple coats of shellac to bring
out their natural beauty, they transform
into octopi, or staghorn coral. Or, as
my mother explained to me as I grew,
the rape survivor Medusa’s head of snakes—
snakes being her punishment for Poseidon's
assault against her body with his venomous
viper; the rape turned any future hopes she had
for normalcy to stone, which is to say, as Medusa
lied under his shadow, Poseidon projected himself
onto her—a terrifying appearance, a petrifying gaze.
Then she was called monster while he continued
to reign freely. Any man who slayed Medusa
with his long, sharp blade would be called hero,
and brave; her severed head and deadened mind,
a trophy. But until then, she was forced to withdraw
from society and live alone in a cave,
for shame. Before Mother died, she told me nothing
has changed for women, and that I am Medusa’s daughter,
and that statistically speaking, I will also become
Medusa.
I am Medusa.
Olivia Fortier’s work has appeared in multiple literary journals. She is currently a Master of Fine Arts candidate.
