“the children are dead”:—
they were called desire and love.
it wasn’t revenge. it was freedom.
the alchemy of golden fleece is such
that all that turns into gold (&blood),
can also become a bitter, battering
concoction of carbon and sulphate
that are coated on my bosom, that
nourished the progeny of my sacrifice.
i am not spiteful. i am enraged like eyes
of a broken china doll, like the spit in
the fire, like the fever that has banished
you to bed. i am a scarlet red, a sorceress,
a demanding muse of open seams, stitches
&sudden seizures. how can i ever handle
this juggernaut of social relations?—
media monsters, movie marauders,
these Colchian dragons and fruits of
crimes of passion, my need for rebellion.
my serpentine journey back to my start
should not be taken as my loss or suicide,
i reach back into my psyche (foxglove
memories, apple armories, dreams of Circe)
to seek what is my own — i look for a home
to live, where my solitude can be permanent,
and my shoes big enough to carry my swollen
fates. i do not believe in sun-derived faiths.
the heliocentric space cannot accommodate me.
Medea — this is the coronet of a life, non-binary,
non-conforming, non-resisting, reticent, regent,
relapsing to the rosary of nocturne herbs&remedies.
i am godly, i am ghastly, a gargantuan figure of
your vile disgrace — fuck Euripides — i do not
need your malaise, none of your magnanimity.
© Anmol Arora
For my prompt, ‘On Myths & Legends‘, at dVerse, where I have asked the poets to reimagine popular myths & legends and write a poem about the same through a new tangent or perspective. Do come and participate!
Also linking it up with The Tuesday Platform at WRT, where Sanaa is hosting this week while also posing an optional challenge for the Poetry Month.
(Inter)National Poetry Month