Medea

Everything is clear. Everything is simple.
I can change death to life, age to youth, but over
him I no longer have power.
He lies with her now — a princess with supple
skin, she curves and clamps her
body to him, all pretence of fear
gone … How those open legs angle
to draw him in. By day, he gazes at her demure
eyes, her hair gold as her father's coffers —
I'll bet that has them in a royal
sweat as they roll and tease and smother.
And laugh at me … Oh yes, everything is clear.
He has robbed me of my womanhood. What spells
can I work now? And our children. Shall I nurture
their youth for his age? My anger
runs in blood down their faces. They will
not be here, for his old age, or mine. Somewhere,
in some corner of my mind, there
must be a way out, a crack that opens to reveal
the sky. I peer into the mirror,
see only the children's blood in smears
across my face. But I know it is my face, still.
And that everything is clear.
Everything is so simple.