It was raining when we met.
I watched him swell with a smile;
a soft-bellied grin. He thought it was cute
I couldn’t swim.
That night, he cooked.
I knew then he was a catch,
Standing there in oven mitts
trying not to let the boiling water
make him nervous.
We had waterlogged pork and floating potatoes.
His pruny fingers rippled my skin
and I kissed his neck, ignoring the wet sheets,
splashing around until our bodies drowned the bed.
It’s morning now, and he’s making breakfast.
You know, I said, I met a psychic
who said I’d fall in love.
Really?
Yes, I said, but she told me it wouldn’t last long.
I don’t believe her.
Me neither, I said, but if she was right,
what do you think would happen?
I would kill myself.
How?
First, I would try handwriting my suicide note,
but the ink would keep running.
What else?
Then I would drop a dryer in the tub,
but the current would go right through me.
What else?
Finally, I would run a bath and disappear.
Would you be that lonely?
I’d be drowning. How do you
like your eggs?
Runny, I said smiling.
I love that Medusa goes to a psychic. Such great, saturated images (in the writing and the visuals). Very nice.
To me, the last four lines of this poem sum up the inherent binary nature intrinsic in every important moment of our lives..a dichotomy that is mirrored and underscored by the art…fabulous work, both of you.
I love how he’s holding a fork like a trident. And the poem shows a great combination of playing with mythical archetypes, while also saying something about real people.
I love the jelly fish as eggs. Wonderful!
What beautiful, beautiful images!
I was inspired to look up the story of Medusa, and all the parts I somehow missed in elementary school. Like the part about her being raped by Poseidon while trying to worship Athena. This is a neat alternate 'history.'