I pray to rosy-fingered
dawn,
the goddess Eos,
for a good day. Today
especially, I need the
luck.
I call her mama.
She calls me daughter,
and other endearments:
my little ransom, my
lock
of golden ram-fleece,
my little vindication.
My real name a murmur only
of golden ram-fleece,
my little vindication.
My real name a murmur only
as she prays for
herself and for me,
to the floor-crack
goddess
whose name is contagion
to even utter aloud.
The old nurse Iole
calls her "mistress,"
and fears her tantrums,
her whip-snaps over
rusty water
or herbs picked in
haste
without their medicinal
roots.
Yet mama takes counsel
from the only
countrywoman she has
among these Attic strangers.
What would she do if
Iole
were not there to hold
her back?
I dread to think it.
Only papa calls her by
name --
always a trembling
vocative
as though she were a
goddess,
each glance or word or
embrace
a begged-for
beneficence.
As it should be,
considering our
lineage,
daughters of kings.
Just days ago he called
to me.
I ran to meet him. Beware
your mother, he warned me.
When her eyes go all black
the way they do most every day now,
I want you to run and hide.
Of course I didn’t.
I do the eye thing,
too,
but not as well as my
mother does.
Just yesterday, beneath
the oak,
on the hilltop in view
of the palace
mama and I made a
little hecatomb,
and as she watched and
said the words,
I burned the effigy of
the king,
and a blond-haired doll
to represent his
daughter.
And papa? I asked,
thrusting the helmeted
doll
head first into the
twig-fire,
shall we burn papa?
She seized the doll and
squeezed it.
No, she said. Not papa.
And she held it to her
bosom,
eyes closed and
rocking,
so long that I crept
away.
Let me never love
anyone
if it hurts that much!
Another day, Eos:
promise me the dawn
of tomorrow, and all
will be well.
For this is the day
of my initiation: the
world below,
and the one above both
joined
in a terrible drama.
And here it comes: she
is calling us.
Children, children, come!
I tremble and look at
my brother.
She is at the doorway,
her eyes all black, her
arms
extended rigidly.
Darker, lower, her
voice again:
Children, children come! Now!
I push my brother,
the golden-locked fool.
You first,
I say. He runs to her
embrace.
I watch what she does.
It is over quickly, as
with a chicken
or a hare. Come daughter,
come! she beckons me.
I step over my brother.
It is my turn.
My eyes go to Hecate. I
lift
my throat and take in
my grasp
my mama’s trembling
knife hand.
I know I am there. I
know
a crimson ribbon is
leaving me
and flooding
everywhere.
I hear the howl of a
man.
It is papa. He has seen
it.
I hear the long, low
laughter
as mama mocks him.
In a while I will do
what mama taught me.
My eyes will return
from Hecate,
and the ribbon of my
blood
will furl back inward,
and I shall be whole again.
Who asks for this day, Eos,
and for another dawn
tomorrow?
I am Medea, daughter of
Medea.
And my daughter who
comes after
will be Medea, daughter
of Medea.
And we will make men
sorry
they were ever born.
