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Medusa’s Dinner Party


I. In the Grocery Store

We weave the shopping cart down the aisle,
unsurprised by the dead women hanging
in the freezer, their rotted bodies still laced
with dirt from the grave. The boy next to me

is mine, and he’s an excellent cook, his fingers
play my spine like a violin while we inspect
each dead nymph, measure the size of the breasts
and the perk of the nipples. He searches

for the ripest one, takes the heel of her feet
into his hands, turns her over like an eager
avocado.  She’s gotta be soft. The cold leaves
a bite, love. And he’s right. The spit bubble

is clinging to the inside of his cheek, he’s done
a poor job of hiding his drool. We unpackage
her when we get home, slice the hull of her lips
with a dull steak knife. Salt and pepper her eyeballs,

held open by toothpicks. She smells so good
I could sing her a lullaby. She smells so good
I suck on each bone until my mouth is sore, until
the snakes curled around my ear are still,
as stone.


Still as stone, the snakes curl around my ear
when the police come. I turn to my boy with big
eyes and flesh in my teeth, confused as a burnt out firefly.
But if she was in the store, why is it a secret?

Men with guns are pounding up our stairs, yelling.
Murderers. Cannibals. Such ugly words. My boy’s heart
beat is as loud as a radiator. Her body is gone, lullabied
into our stomachs. But he lunges across the table,
tears the pages of my notebook, all the evidence

he can think of. Rotted bodies still laced with dirt
from the grave, he pushes in my ear. Dead avocado nymph,
perkiest of nipples. My diary words, in his mouth. The snakes
are alive, hissing, fangs biting my cheeks. He slams

me into the bathroom, my face wet as the sink. My boy’s
heartbeat is taking over the room. It yells louder
than the police. It bites harder than the snakes. He oversees
as I rip apart each word, let the faucet eat all the letters

I have ever written as the police pour into my house,
past the mess of dinner table, their nostrils wide open,
hunting for flesh.



  1. Greg Roll on

    Nothing beautiful about it other than the arrangement of words. It was morbid and gruesome just like the hunger that plagues us.

  2. Narjes Azimi on

    Extremely beautiful poem by Fatima Asghar

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