They say: Medusa

Headless gorgon, toga-wrapped like prized liqueur,

presented in a burlap sack, stone-dead and serpentine,

unfurling vines at the feet of a king.

A hard-won victory for a man on gifted wings,

carried on the backs of women who reviled her.

They say: Persephone

Dutiful daughter, dutiful wife.

A stolen innocence, a split fruit,

seeds burst and bloodied, spilling forth into hands skeletal.

A mother's tragedy rendered in punishing spectacle:

Loved in darkness and mourned in light.

I do not hear: Durga

Mahadevi, war-mother, tumeric-stained archer

She, creator of all worlds:

Many-armed as my Amma, drawing milk and blood in the same breath,

swallowing it to shield her children, bow drawn truer than any Artemis:

She is the tiger, the crashing tide and the harbor.

Some whisper: Hekate

many-named, midwife and hellhound-mother,

standing at the crossroads

waiting for you,

for your death,

or for the death of what

you no longer need.