The Gorgon's Daughter.

Whatever my feelings for the girl,

I do sincerely hate the mother,

though I never met the woman,

except, of course, in her daughter,

in that despotic way she can speak

on matters that surely lie beyond

the experience of her tender years,

and in the curt way she might dismiss

some small expression of anxiety,

and in many other ways that imply

some model of domestic tyranny.

But such signs are nothing to the way

she is altered when moved to anger,

the darkened face, the hardened eyes,

the voice so abruptly hoarse,

the uncustomary coarseness of her words,

all ladylike demeanour cast aside

in a state of malevolent fury.

Clearly the old witch pervades her.

She is, I fear, thoroughly entwined,

held fast in the maternal grasp,

all resistance, all shame at subjection,

lost in a fierce and hopeless loyalty,

hers the double bondage of those who,

mortified, champion their oppressor.

How is the maiden ever to be set free?

Who is there to brave that demon gaze,

those living crawling hissing locks,

the icy blast of that gaping mouth?

Who is there to perform the heroic deed,

the determined wielding of the sword

to effect the required beheading?

Will she, in time, prove her own Perseus?

Or is she, in truth, too late for saving,

just one more victim of family life,

this soured daughter of an embittered wife?