"And Medusa Laughs"

By Carmen Lara Sanchez

“And Medusa Laughs”

by Carmen Lara Sánchez

I said it, didn’t I?

The thing you feared I’d say

I didn’t mean to—

or maybe I did.

The words slipped through

with truth, cold as serpents’ touch,

disrupting hiss, that anthem

you’d so carefully composed.

Misspeaking—

isn’t that the euphemism for rebellion?

The unconscious rearing its head

on that role you wrote for me.

You wanted me silent, but my tongue failed.

And I saw it—that flicker in your face—

Did you feel offended? Betrayed?

Relieved? In pain?

Misspeaking—I didn’t mean to

—Oh, but I did.

All those swords I swallowed for years,

almost lost my vocal cords,

but I spilled them out in time

—and Medusa laughed.

I’m not sorry for that.

And you’ll call it a mistake,

a silly lapse. Refusing to see

that the performance became a cage—

a luxury cage that I longed to escape.

So I misspoke, if you wish.

I tore the script, I burned the stage,

and the laugh that came out

—unexpected and cruel—

resonated, effective, better

than all that over-rehearsed play.

So let me speak and misspeak as well—

You’ll choke on my words or swallow them whole.

But guilt is a weight that I won’t longer wear,

not in silence, not this violence.

I am the truth you cannot tell.