Listen, I know you
were just thinking about Medea in her
chariot, blazing with her burning
crinoline and lanolin and hair oils.
I know you think of her as broad-
shouldered and dark, because it is poetic for
dark ones to go bad sooner, like bruised
plums. Her husband was damnably
evil: stained fingers and a paunch.
On what authority do you make
metaphor out of some babies’ stinking
little corpses? She did not act
without precedent. If she’d greased
them when small, slipped them into jars
to squall by the roadside, she’d
be only conventional.
Your stupid heroine, in
some Grecian draped business, now
glaring at God because
driving her point (ha!) home has meant
more to her and to you
than the possibility of mercy.
Justice is in the end
meted out, even to the well-
intentioned. Some days, you can’t
just do it for yourself.
Contributor’s Notes: Katharine Diehl was born in Brooklyn but dreams of a country escape. Maybe when she am a rich, famous, and successful career poet. She has a B.A. in psychology and has been published in Assisi Journal. She attended the 2012 New York State Summer Writers Institute on scholarship. She blogs about writing, the creative process, and other things at frozenseawriting.tumblr.com.