waited where her sister lay,
as the blood grew dry and dusty
where the head was cut away.
Medusa, mortal; not her sisters,
blessed, cursed, living on,
unkillable, who, by her body,
waited, less one, for the dawn.
I wonder for how long they missed her.
If they miss her, even now,
wonder what she'd make of cell phones,
if Perseus had but allowed.
Euryale sells art, and makes it.
Stheno works in real estate,
with faint praise for her sister's sculptures:
they've forgot Medusa's face.
I miss you, too, though only faintly:
time makes ghosts of all of us,
loves that shattered, loves that lingered
soothe in time, and turn to dust.
Stheno laughs, and like her sister
Euryale, lives on alone.
A symbol now, to those who missed her:
Medusa, loved, but now unknown.