My Hair
“The Gorgon was made out of the terror, not the terror out of the Gorgon.”
~ Homer, The Odyssey
~ Homer, The Odyssey
I.
I grow it long—eight snakes for eight hungers I name
like children. First the moon as it splinters over
the water, my tongue as it suffocates childhood
secrets lying under it. How do I speak or say I miss
seeing myself in my dreams, the shadows I meant
to sew back to my feet but kept forgetting? I leave
memories where I don’t mean to, forget them like
keys. But the family cats sniff & drag them out, strew
them across the kitchen table like squirrels, open-
mouthed. Everyone is polite. I wonder what everyone
thinks of my new hair. I imagine my birth & how my
mother must have gleamed after. How someone, perhaps
her, knew what was coming & crowned me with eight
snake eggs—named me Medusa, baby with 9 mouths.
II.
The average snake lives 9 years. I do not know many
other snake facts. I know I used to be able to breathe
underwater, when I was still with my mother, unborn.
That I didn’t eat for 9 months, but rather was fed by
her placenta, which was a tube. No other animal is
concerned with outer space like we are. They know the
grass is always greener until we induce climate change
& torch it browner. When men colonize the moon
they won’t leave their violence behind. Some things are
too precious. The modern man likes to celebrate “first
women” who accomplish all that he has kept us from
doing sooner. I think about the first woman who will be
raped in outer space, that maybe she’ll be looking at Orion,
unwinding an ouroboros in her mind at the same time I am.
III.
I’m surprised no one ever committed me to a
hospital bed, forced a feeding tube in my mouth,
asked me to please stop feeding into my eating
disorder—the problem is I like to suck on my
delusions first, make sure they’re sweet enough,
like honeybees like, before I swallow them. I know
that cats don’t have 9 lives. Once I saw one killed
as a child, run over in the street like a summer peach,
fallen from a tree, left flat & rotting. The only thing
that remained in the street was its name. I don’t
remember it. But I kept expecting it to rise again, come
lick my hand, beg me for milk. Now, when I eat
peaches, the fur rubs against my teeth, sticks to them.
IV.
The first time I fucked myself to the film Carol, based on
The Price of Salt by Patricia Highsmith, I couldn’t stop
thinking about Carol’s hands, & how I wanted them to
touch me but also be part of me, those arms that flowed
like rivers. That was 2015. I can’t fuck myself to Carol
anymore. The opening credits cite The Weinstein Company
as its distributor. Now in my dreams Carol’s arms flow long
like snakes, & it doesn’t matter how many times I prepare
myself by first inviting them into my bed—they still lay
eggs where I can’t see them. Hatching starts with the sound
of a fine crack, encircles the egg. Splits the shell in half.
V.
Sloane means warrior in Gaelic. My mother’s maiden name,
Barragán, also means warrior, in Spanish. In theory all this
blood I am capable of shedding should come easily. But
I don’t have a sword, & it is hard to take a sword from your
ancestor’s motherland on the return plane home. Perseus
beheaded Medusa with a diamond-encrusted sword. Which
means he used stone to kill a woman before she could turn
him into stone first. It seems every man thinks a woman is out
to get him. As for myself, I am allergic to cheap metals. The
copper IUD inserted into my cervix was just a snake widening
its mouth. To make up for this pain I think of its effectiveness,
sperm politely dying according to my wishes. Bleeding, &
having bled, I am always trying to make the sword myself.
VI.
My mom braided my hair every morning
for 9 years, her curlers doing her hair at
the same time. The light as it beamed in
through the window would tangle into my
hair as she wove it. By then, her hands
had woven the same pattern so many times
she’d crafted a bridge of light between us,
threading us to one another. I still can’t braid
my own hair well. I am afraid of tangling a
knot so big that I’ll try, but can’t untangle it.
The river that ran throughout my hair when
I’d unbraid it made me feel like a mermaid.
In the summers, after my mom uncurled her
hair, I’d turn on sprinklers & hold her hand.
We’d bite into peaches, the juice flowing
down our mouths, turning water into honey.
VII.
When Medusa saw Perseus seeing her reflected
in his diamond-encrusted sword, she knew she
was fucked, so she split herself in half—one half
fought back, the other admired the way light was
splintering off the sword, gleaming. She already
knew every man in ancient Greece wanted her
beheaded. There was no reason to think of anything
other than light before death. I often think about
myself as a 9-year-old—how, if we met, I’d make
her breakfast every morning, pretend to crack
an egg over her head. Tired, we’d sit down at the
kitchen table, trying to keep our eyes open. After
combing through the knots in her hair & cutting
off the dead ends, I’d braid it so well that it’d fall
like a sword straight down her back, relentless.
VIII.
Only our eyes can hold light. My partner taught me
this—that drawing is the translation of day we make
with our hands. But when I draw the line tends to snake
away from me, & though I chase it in circles around
the page, I can’t quite copy the way it slithers &
moves its body. My partner was the first man I ever
fucked. I don’t count the men that came before him.
When we’re hungry the morning after, I crack an egg
against my teeth, feel the shell as it splinters & gets
stuck. I don’t think I’ll live forever—I am a woman
with 9 mouths & 9 forked tongues, every man is out
to get me. So I make a sword out of this mythos,
polish it until my reflection gleams. Even if I don’t
know everything, I know this: snakes when I see them.
I grow it long—eight snakes for eight hungers I name
like children. First the moon as it splinters over
the water, my tongue as it suffocates childhood
secrets lying under it. How do I speak or say I miss
seeing myself in my dreams, the shadows I meant
to sew back to my feet but kept forgetting? I leave
memories where I don’t mean to, forget them like
keys. But the family cats sniff & drag them out, strew
them across the kitchen table like squirrels, open-
mouthed. Everyone is polite. I wonder what everyone
thinks of my new hair. I imagine my birth & how my
mother must have gleamed after. How someone, perhaps
her, knew what was coming & crowned me with eight
snake eggs—named me Medusa, baby with 9 mouths.
II.
The average snake lives 9 years. I do not know many
other snake facts. I know I used to be able to breathe
underwater, when I was still with my mother, unborn.
That I didn’t eat for 9 months, but rather was fed by
her placenta, which was a tube. No other animal is
concerned with outer space like we are. They know the
grass is always greener until we induce climate change
& torch it browner. When men colonize the moon
they won’t leave their violence behind. Some things are
too precious. The modern man likes to celebrate “first
women” who accomplish all that he has kept us from
doing sooner. I think about the first woman who will be
raped in outer space, that maybe she’ll be looking at Orion,
unwinding an ouroboros in her mind at the same time I am.
III.
I’m surprised no one ever committed me to a
hospital bed, forced a feeding tube in my mouth,
asked me to please stop feeding into my eating
disorder—the problem is I like to suck on my
delusions first, make sure they’re sweet enough,
like honeybees like, before I swallow them. I know
that cats don’t have 9 lives. Once I saw one killed
as a child, run over in the street like a summer peach,
fallen from a tree, left flat & rotting. The only thing
that remained in the street was its name. I don’t
remember it. But I kept expecting it to rise again, come
lick my hand, beg me for milk. Now, when I eat
peaches, the fur rubs against my teeth, sticks to them.
IV.
The first time I fucked myself to the film Carol, based on
The Price of Salt by Patricia Highsmith, I couldn’t stop
thinking about Carol’s hands, & how I wanted them to
touch me but also be part of me, those arms that flowed
like rivers. That was 2015. I can’t fuck myself to Carol
anymore. The opening credits cite The Weinstein Company
as its distributor. Now in my dreams Carol’s arms flow long
like snakes, & it doesn’t matter how many times I prepare
myself by first inviting them into my bed—they still lay
eggs where I can’t see them. Hatching starts with the sound
of a fine crack, encircles the egg. Splits the shell in half.
V.
Sloane means warrior in Gaelic. My mother’s maiden name,
Barragán, also means warrior, in Spanish. In theory all this
blood I am capable of shedding should come easily. But
I don’t have a sword, & it is hard to take a sword from your
ancestor’s motherland on the return plane home. Perseus
beheaded Medusa with a diamond-encrusted sword. Which
means he used stone to kill a woman before she could turn
him into stone first. It seems every man thinks a woman is out
to get him. As for myself, I am allergic to cheap metals. The
copper IUD inserted into my cervix was just a snake widening
its mouth. To make up for this pain I think of its effectiveness,
sperm politely dying according to my wishes. Bleeding, &
having bled, I am always trying to make the sword myself.
VI.
My mom braided my hair every morning
for 9 years, her curlers doing her hair at
the same time. The light as it beamed in
through the window would tangle into my
hair as she wove it. By then, her hands
had woven the same pattern so many times
she’d crafted a bridge of light between us,
threading us to one another. I still can’t braid
my own hair well. I am afraid of tangling a
knot so big that I’ll try, but can’t untangle it.
The river that ran throughout my hair when
I’d unbraid it made me feel like a mermaid.
In the summers, after my mom uncurled her
hair, I’d turn on sprinklers & hold her hand.
We’d bite into peaches, the juice flowing
down our mouths, turning water into honey.
VII.
When Medusa saw Perseus seeing her reflected
in his diamond-encrusted sword, she knew she
was fucked, so she split herself in half—one half
fought back, the other admired the way light was
splintering off the sword, gleaming. She already
knew every man in ancient Greece wanted her
beheaded. There was no reason to think of anything
other than light before death. I often think about
myself as a 9-year-old—how, if we met, I’d make
her breakfast every morning, pretend to crack
an egg over her head. Tired, we’d sit down at the
kitchen table, trying to keep our eyes open. After
combing through the knots in her hair & cutting
off the dead ends, I’d braid it so well that it’d fall
like a sword straight down her back, relentless.
VIII.
Only our eyes can hold light. My partner taught me
this—that drawing is the translation of day we make
with our hands. But when I draw the line tends to snake
away from me, & though I chase it in circles around
the page, I can’t quite copy the way it slithers &
moves its body. My partner was the first man I ever
fucked. I don’t count the men that came before him.
When we’re hungry the morning after, I crack an egg
against my teeth, feel the shell as it splinters & gets
stuck. I don’t think I’ll live forever—I am a woman
with 9 mouths & 9 forked tongues, every man is out
to get me. So I make a sword out of this mythos,
polish it until my reflection gleams. Even if I don’t
know everything, I know this: snakes when I see them.
Sloane Scott is a junior studying Poetry and Gender & Sexuality studies at Northwestern University. Her work has appeared in Hooligan Mag, trampset, and elsewhere. She is never without her thesaurus. Find her at www.sloanescottpoetry.com.