Medea Poems

Adrianne Marcus

1.
I knew before you got here
I was in trouble. This
palace had gotten small;
I knew all the hidden
corners, and outside
the air had a drift like
dead blood riding on it.
The golden fleece
was already looking
tarnished.

You were a diversion
from the pretty men
and vapid women
of the court. I looked
you up and down, saw
that sidelong glance
my way, your focus fixed
on father, who saw you
instantly as a rival.

No one ever
mentions mommy, shut up
in the high tower
with the wind as company.
She was one
of those palace secrets
that everyone knew
but no one talks about.
She did crewel work, though
her stitches left something
to be desired. Still,
it kept her occupied.

Climbing the dented stairs,
I went to see her and
asked her advice.
She told me to avoid
you, that she had seen
a flaming conflagration.
I thought she was being
redundant, poetic. Now I know
what she saw was real.


2.
Marriage

This is what happens to child
brides. We marry possibility.

You, Jason, were all that:
proud and tall at the helm
of your ship, needing my help.
How could I refuse? The first
words women learn to say are
'May I help you?' No one
before had ever replied yes.

That face, those sculptured
features. Your low, enthralling voice.
I couldn't keep my hands off you.
Even your crew looked
askance and tried to tell me
you were not the man I created.

But who was I to listen? Forsaking
family, friends, I came to your
country, ignored the people when
they called me barbarian.
Afflicted with reason
they had no instincts left.
I had you: that was enough.

Passionate, we made our own country:
our bed. Such fierce pressing
fiery flesh to flesh,
I woke up mornings
bruised with love. And then
the children. They looked like
you, dark eyed, smooth haired.

But they had my wilderness
burning inside. I loved
them as I had once
loved you: without question.
It was only when your women-folk
began to mutter witch and sorceress,
I took exception.

You began to look at me in a
different light then. Freed
from the wildness of our marriage
bed, you took to politics.
Late hours with the boys.
The king, who needed your advice.

The children would ask each
night, "Where's father?" And
I began to notice little furrows
in my brow. My cooking faltered
into three worn dishes.

I should have known, before you
told me. The King's daughter.
Did you really think I could
be used, then thrown away?
What could I do
but revert to
magic, older than
puny reason.
Granted, I punished
the wrong person. That was
my only mistake. Don't come
crying around me now.
You knew what I was
when you married me.
That should have been warning enough.


3.

Years Afterward

This is a hard day. I am
going over pictures in
my mind, trying to remember
the good days, before
your townspeople tore
our children into bits,
then hired Euripides to blame
it all on me. As if I ever would
have touched one precious hair
on their shining heads.
Those rational Corinthians:
scratch the surface
and reason falls away like
dust to wind. And blood coats
everything.
Neither you nor I
could stop them -- although
I take the blame for
marrying you in the first
place. What was I thinking?
No good could come of it.

Although I thought we tried.
Couldn't you tell
the difference between
faithful and loyal?
I could have managed
with your mistress on the side
the way the other Greek wives
did. But the fact you
were disloyal to me: that's
what I can't forgive.
So now we're back with
less than nothing.


The fleece gone. The children
only a memory. And ourselves,
apart. This new country
in which I live
is as empty and gold as the sun.

Only at night do I even
think of you. And then
it is the children's faces
I see, what they might have been, despite you.