Medusa

　　by Frieda Hughes

　　 She is the gypsy

　　 Whose young have rooted

　　 In the very flesh of her scalp.

　　 Her eyes are drill-holes where

　　 Your senses spin， and you are stone

　　 Even as you stand before her.

　　 She opens her lips to speak，

　　 And have you believe.

　　 She has more tongues to deceive

　　 Than you can deafen your ears to.

　　 If you could look away， the voices

　　 From the heads of her vipers

　　 Would be hard to argue.

　　 If you could look away，

　　 The pedestals of your feet might move.

　　 If you could look away，

　　 The song from the cathedral of her mouth

　　 Would fall to the floor like a lie