Medusa at Her Vanity

Her hair, not having breakfasted,

Coils restlessly, like anxious thoughts.

She daubs some blood into her cheeks

And smears her lips with gore.

Deaths flutter round her and alight,

Crisping their wings on her despair.

The night drags on. She tries to read.

She feeds the snakes. She yawns

Over an abyss. It's such a bore-

The books, the snakes-and it will be

Like this forever, or until the dreamt-of day

A mirror appears, to die upon her kiss.