Metamorphose Medusa, do the snakes snap at your fingers when you run a comb through your tresses? Or do they unravel their bodies, straightening into an Eden of hoses that could power wash the stains out of the enemies you’ve turned to stone? Medusa, if the gods drank the marrow from your bones, would they inherit your head – not what’s on it, but what’s inside it? Medusa, if you could reclaim your hair, would it tumble down your back and shatter the earth beneath you? If it soaked up the sea, would you wring your locks dry, creator of your own high tide? Medusa, would you wear your hair as a veil to disguise the tears that dried up in your eyes before you had a chance to cry? Medusa, do the snakes snap at your fingers when you run a comb through your tresses? Or do they unravel their bodies, straightening into an Eden of hoses that could power wash the stains out of the enemies you’ve turned to stone? Medusa, if the gods drank the marrow from your bones, would they inherit your head – not what’s on it, but what’s inside it? Medusa, if you could reclaim your hair, would it tumble down your back and shatter the earth beneath you? If it soaked up the sea, would you wring your locks dry, creator of your own high tide? Medusa, would you wear your hair as a veil to disguise the tears that dried up in your eyes before you had a chance to cry?
How to Walk Across a Tightrope with an Elephant on Your Shoulders
- Distribute the elephant’s weight as evenly across your shoulders as you can manage, even as your ribs crack and the discs in your back herniate.
- Let the elephant fashion his trunk around your neck to help him feel secure. Pretend it’s a chiffon scarf and you just stepped off the cover a Vogue magazine.
- Beads of sweat on your temple will create a river as large and free-flowing as the Nile, but it’s not enough to soothe the desert of your skin. Drink from this river, as it is rich with the electrolytes your body couldn’t retain.
- The ground beneath you will begin to tilt and sway as your heart pumps adrenaline to every nerve in your broken body. The elephant will sense this, tensing, his trunk tight around your neck. Sing a song to soothe him so he doesn’t crush your larynx.
- Your legs will quiver. You will fall to your knees and send the elephant into a frenzy. He likes to have all four feet planted firmly on the ground. Remind him that he chose to make a home on your shoulders.
- Pop an aspirin. The elephant will want one too. Lie and say you’re all out. You will need every last bit when your bones start to splinter.
- The elephant will try to look down as you inch a toe toward the rope. This will throw off your meticulous balance. Refuse to take another step until his head faces forward, so poised, he could balance plates from Buckingham Palace on it.
- Place one foot on the rope, your eagle-spread arms grasping at the nothingness around you with a ballerina’s grace.
- You will plummet to the ground. The elephant will cling to the tightrope with his trunk. His feet will shatter to the ground, sending tremors down the spine of the earth and breaking yours along with it.
- The elephant will hold a candlelight vigil for you as he somersaults along the rope.
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Photography Credit: Jason Rice
Lela Ross’s poetry has been published in Typehouse Literary Magazine. She holds a BA in Integrative Studies from George Mason University.
