She married him
in satin,
though her snakes hissed
at the veil.
Now she makes coffee
without turning anyone
to stone.
She wears sunglasses indoors.
Polishes the knives
without reason.
They say she’s tamed.
But the mirrors know better.
Her husband thinks
he saved her
calls her baby,
calls her beautiful,
never calls her myth.
She kisses him
with lips that once cursed men
into statues.
Now she files taxes.
Sorts laundry.
Avoids eye contact
at dinner.
He brings guests.
They never stay long.
The gorgons sleep lightly
in her hair,
curling like secrets
she dare not name.
Some nights,
she opens the freezer
and stares into it
like an oracle.
She remembers
marble thighs,
the thrill of silence
after a scream.
The weight of being feared
instead of folded.
He sleeps
like the world is safe.
She lies beside him
wide-eyed,
still glowing faintly
from an old curse
she never fully
gave up.
***
Madras Courier originally ran as a broadsheet with a poetry section. It was a time when readers felt comfortable sharing glimpses of their lives through verse. If you have a poem you’d like to submit, do email us at [email protected].
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