Medea

The sculptor has made
her princess of Colchis.
Her eyes are closed.

She is young, small,
frail as a flower.
Her lips begin a smile

for the stranger
come for the fleece
in her father’s city.

She holds a bowl
in one hand laden
with petals and leaves.

Her other is at
her breast where
it weaves the future

from a heart on fire,
a soul that begs: Forget
this story, refute

somehow all you know,
that such a face
conceive of crimes

the graceful innocence
of such a one could execute.
If not, oh, oh, a memory

that understands the cool,
white marble floor,
the pools of blood.

Four-time Pushcart Prize nominee as well as Best of the Net nominee, J.R. Solonche has been publishing poetry in magazines, journals, and anthologies since the early 70’s. He lives in the Hudson Valley and teaches at SUNY Orange.