Middle School Medusa

Like some shimmering bronze goddess 
she slips through the air-conditioned lobby 
of The Sherwood Forest Country Club,

dripping wet in a yellow string bikini, 
past the black marble fountain and the plink 
of pennies, past bamboo baskets

of ferns, the gaping red mouths 
of poinsettias, past the pink light 
of the pinball machines

where Puerto Rican men breathe 
from their cigars, their slurred voices 
rising like smoke—

through the swinging glass doors 
that lead her outside 
into the sweaty cursed air,

where she drifts like gossip, 
white ribbons swimming 
in the brown waves of her hair—

past the crinkle of candy wrappers 
and the hiss of soda cans, the boys 
in blue speedos who stare at her

from the snackbar, their faces blank 
as stone, past the swollen sun-streaked 
stomachs floating across the pool,

the gaggle of girls who gawk at her 
from their inner tubes, 
who imagine themselves squeezed

into her tight yellow bikini, 
their own smooth, tanned legs 
propped atop the lifeguard's boombox,

their own shiny manicured fingers 
snapping to the new, hip song 
that none of us knows.

Chris Tusa's questions:

Does the comparison to Medusa add complexity to the poem? Or, does it simply distract the reader?

Does the poem end too abruptly?

IO SPEAKS TO JUPITER ABOUT THE LONELINESS OF HER FATE
	
	According to Roman mythology, Io, a river nymph, 
	had the misfortune of being subjected to the lust 
	of Jupiter, who, in an attempt to avoid the rage and 
	jealousy of his wife Juno, transformed Io into a heifer.

I would have expected an owl 
with yellow eyes to haunt the air. 
Maybe a cheetah crouched 
against an orange horizon. 
A crow opening like a black flower 
in the trees.

Instead, I spend my days 
in this thistle-tangled field 
sweltering in the sun 
beneath a red sky twisted 
with black branches.

You cannot imagine the awful 
buzz of horseflies. 
The daisies with their rusted 
mouths. The dull eternity 
of horses. Their purple tongues 
licking the air.

At night, the eyes of Argus 
blink in the trees. 
Black waves of wind roll over me, 
flooding the field. 
The air cuts at my throat. 
And my eyes drown in dust.

The only comfort I know 
comes when I think of Juno 
swimming through the flames 
of my voice. The brilliant 
swell of blues and reds.

Nothing left except 
a black cloud of smoke, 
a hole in the sky 
drifting across the horizon 
like the charred memory of a god.

Chris Tusa's questions:

Is the voice believable?

Is the separation between the fifth and final stanza awkward?