Like Medusa
the enso
the poem
If a tree is life
then these exposed roots, tangled
like Medusa’s hair, half-drowned in water,
are the bloodlines. We want more
than these exposed roots. Tangled,
we twist our limbs, failing to see
our bloodlines. We want more
than the promise of power as
we twist, our limbs flailing, to see
how a legend is created from nothing more
than the promise. Power
leaves men stunned. In its wake, we fear
a legend is created. From nothing: more
power. This weapon attached to a shield
leaves stunned men in its wake. Fear
writhes, alive. Your head, the trunk, is
power, a weapon attached to this shield
like Medusa. Hair half-drowned in water
writhes, alive: your head is the trunk, as
if a tree is life.