Power Of Myth

A Varied and Inconsistent Account of Woman


I am Medea or am I?

Direct descendant of the sun
predominantly divine but only as long
as I had Jason’s love. I am all mortal.
yet do I die or do I ascend?

A ritornello of slain children’s voices.

Did I give the hero an unguent
to protect against flames,
then burn him with my jealousy?

Did I warn him an army
would rise from his sowing
yet fall for his farmer’s hands?

Did I put the dragon of doubt to sleep
so drugged by love,
I sailed away with Jason,
scattered bits of my brother’s body
to turn my father’s head?

A ritornello of slain children’s voices
cry down centuries.

Had my brother, the monster,
long begged me for death?
Did Jason filch his fleece
only because of golden me?

Was I both helper maiden and fool?
They said I had prophecy
so I knew what you’d make of me.

A ritornello of slain children’s voices
screeching cellos overplay an act
that may, or may not, have been me.

I am Medea or am I nothing more
than Jason’s shadow
squid-inked by men’s fear?