Gorgons

   For three days he contemplated

the beauty of his wife as she

stood before him, at the end of which

he wondered, has she ever held her own

against the destructive charms

of gravity like this before? 

   She wasn't so young anymore 

that all parts of her played lightly 

with the pull of the earth; wasn't 

old enough, either, to point every

which way downward. Her breasts

   and ass and hair and neck

and hips by way of stomach

held their own midway to the

earth's core, at eye level. Was this

  compromise and even merger

what passed as perfection in the 

corralling esteem of the Great Ancients? 

She stood there frozen as time

but not in it, yet floridly of it,

the one condition of its spell being 

that if he jumped his seat, stood to

match her, both would break out

   in algorithms of rapid aging. 

Three days. A long wait

to come back from grace. Perfect

   to the eyes, still, her legs 

must ache. Standing over a man

she'd rather lay down with. To

flare back into the bland of the living.