The man only nods. Something in him understands, perhaps, that he will never be paid, but what can he say? He is an exile, same as Medea, on borrowed ground.

12

12

Lavender flesh so soft and impossible, no surface to it, no underside, patterned through. True flower. She would have this flesh herself, no inside and outside, no heart, no lungs, no womb, no blood, no history or home but only pattern of color and light unending and still.

She unsheathes her knife, bronze face of a grandfather, throat of a brother, cuts flower from source, opens a grove of poison. She expects the blade to melt or hiss, but of course this poison is without sign, without scent, fire in purest, quietest form.

Bulbs plain as clods of dirt. She washes carefully in a basin, as if they are infants, pats them dry and then slices each in half, severed flesh exposed, and slices again into quarters until all before her are in pieces.

Form of a world, form of her life, endlessly repeating.

She gathers them together, nestled in close. Her slave has brought stones for mashing, mortars and pestles, and Medea likes the feel of a stone fist. Jason’s heart is what she would like in her bowl. Stone phallus to smash and grind.

Make this bulb his heart, she says. Hekate, or stronger Nute, let him feel stone. Take all away from him and let him live too long, bereft and wandering.

These women beside her afraid. But let them hear. All is too late for everyone. Kreon has let her stay.

Fibrous mass submerged now in its own liquid, tainted brown from skin and earth. Sound like feet slapping into mud. But not as much liquid as she had hoped. She won’t be able to use flour. She must be more direct, a drink with honey and cinnamon, but why would they accept a drink from her?

Bring stone mugs, Medea says. Ancient. I’ve seen them at the feast. Cups from another time. Bring three.

Aeson and Promachus sitting on the bed watching. Are you strong, Aeson? she asks. Can you carry two heavy stone mugs?

I can carry, he says.

But then Promachus is upset, about to cry, face crumpling in child idiocy.

You’ll have one to carry, too, Promachus, she says. One all to yourself.

Now he’s smiling, giggling, too moronic to be true, but she can’t help responding. She’s at the bedside, pulling them both close, Promachus tugging at her hair. Lost, and before she knows it her slave has returned with the mugs.

Dark stone, each carved from a single piece. Black with hints of red like fire, smooth and polished from innumerable hands, thin curved handles too delicate to believe. How this was shaped from stone so long ago none can say.