The Storm Over Medusa’s House

In the very early morning
when the lemon trees are asleep
and before the little frogs
the size of my fingernail
begin their ocean and their blush,
I hear the thunder in the blue
throat of the sky that sits so
intimately – pressing its coiled back
against the window.
And the thrash of wet leaves
like slick ships or shoes
slapping their faces and
pinching their cheeks
to keep them rosy.
And all the secrets falling to the black earth.
And the gutter of the wind –
black hole in the little night
before it cracks
and yawns.
The day begins with a serpent.

[Ruby Sara has been and sometimes is a storyteller, a poet, and a theologian. She is a contributing writer for the performance collective Terra Mysterium, the editor of two anthologies of esoteric poetry published by Scarlet Imprint, and a columnist for Witches and Pagans magazine. Ruby holds a Masters degree in Theological Studies, and has interests in theopoetics and liturgical theology. She lives in Austin, Texas with her intrepid spouse and their demon-monkey-cat, Pinky.]

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