Medusa on a mountain:
you wouldn’t think to find her there,
but she fled her temple and turned the gods to stone. Now she hovers
between the weft of thin air and cloud,
between the needles of sharp and ancient pines,
and her stone mountain gods
are ground to gravel.
A pebble rolls,
runs exuberantly to sea. The snaky lash of lightning
turns sand to glass.
Cut fingers bleed seafoam.
Cut feet fester.
In winter she gains substance. Strolls
down the gravel paths to tread
the ice-rattled thread between sea and sky. That pale white mirror,
that shining underbelly of a dead man’s shield
The black mountain a mote
in his unseeing eye.
In summer she evaporates.
Slithers into ether carried
by winged serpents
to rain on distant waters.
To armor tender frogs. To harden hearts
with mineral deposits.
Simo Srinivas lives in Colorado with their spouse and two senior, standard-issue tabby cats. Their short fiction has previously appeared in The Archive of the Odd and Decoded Pride. When not writing about all things weird and queer, Simo can be found on the trail intently counting pikas and other wildlife. Follow them on Twitter @srinivassimo.
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