To Steep, and: House-Hunting

To Steep

Medusa tells herabout her life as the patronsaint of swift ends for sufferingpeople. She tells her aboutthe storm-churned seas,how drowningby sirensong is the sweetestdeath anyone can knowbecause they don't knowthey're dying. She tells herabout the few, the veryfew men who turned to stonewith smiles on their facesbecause they cravedwhat they could never haveno matter the cost,how these were the most disturbingof them all because at leastshe could understandfear, the anguish,the drive to live.She tells her about the cosmicwhispers that either warnedor encouraged her in turn,how the mostmemorable of whispersboth encouraged & warned.She tells her about the adder—how she could write a love song for that adder,her Artemis, her fiercest, her favorite;who bore the duskytraditional V adders bear:the V a cup, a number, a womb,a divination, a sword, a fang.She tells her about the womenshe admired—women whose beautylay in their wit at least as muchas in their skin, who wereas deadly as men & twice as reviledfor it. She tells herabout old habits dying hard—howher snakes fling irreverent dropletsof water on the walls as she stepsfresh from the shower, how water poolsin footprints on the floor. Howthe air dries her,the air of her own home,own hearth, own chambered heart.She tells herthey got it right about the corals,except it wasn't her death-bloodthat raised those speechless rootedanimals, but her life-blood,her hopes, her angeras she swam the channel.She tells herabout her heart, her Pandora box:how her life's storiesshook within her, snapping, eagerto be released.(But didn't Pandora's box hold allthe evils of the world?)Medusa links their arms,replies, that is whatthey want you to believe.

House-Hunting

The realtor is frightfullyunoriginal. A Gorgon must be intostrong Greek columns & architraves,mustn't she? He rattles offfeatures of the house—the complementof bedrooms & bathrooms &the decade in which the thingwas built, as if she were stillcounting the time by the decade& not by the century.He tells her he likes to help his clientsenvision their dream home.She strokes her snakes as he leads herthrough. When they get to the masterbathroom with its mammothclaw-footed tub, she pretendsto admire the smooth, shimmeringcountertops & the modern fixtures.She pretends to envisionthe towels hanging, briefly considersmaking a joke about "hiss & hers"towels. When he casts openthe French doors to the backyard,she steps out into the spacious greenfairyland. Patting the gentlerof her dusky cotton twins, she musesaloud, "Yes, I can see my collectiongoing very nicely back here."She waits just a heartbeat too meanlybefore adding, "Oh, please don'tblanch like that. I collect gnomes."He pats beads of sweat from his temples as he chuckles. Following him backinside for tea, she shrugs at the viper.No, she is not interested in petrifyingthe realtor, but no, gnomes are notwhat she collects.