Extraordinary Sunshine Weaver

Thank you, Dagmara K, for publishing my poem, “Trapped by Poseidon in a Chevy Impala” on Spillwords. Before I share the poem, I would like to provide background. I know many women can relate to what I am about to share.

When I was in high school, my family moved back to Mom’s hometown, Sault Ste. Marie, Michigan. For a while, we lived in a house on the St. Mary’s River. One evening, I was asked to babysit for family friends who were entertaining a couple from out of town. Their male visitor offered to drive me home. I don’t recall being asked if it was okay with me. I know our family highly regarded our friends, so perhaps I figured I could trust their friend.

That wasn’t the case. He was a predator, asking me intimate questions about whether I was dating or kissing boys and more. Not feeling safe on this long drive across town and along the dark St. Mary’s River, I took a metal nail file out of my purse and held it so that he could see it. It was my only weapon.

Current news about the Epstein files has caused me to recall this experience and other encounters I have had with predatory men. Female friends have their stories, too. This is why I dedicated the poem to the survivors. When I arrived home and reported this experience to my parents, they were outraged and made calls. I’m grateful my parents always trusted my word.

In this poem, I reframed my experience, using myth. Poseidon, the Greek God of the Sea, violated Medusa after she rejected him. He transformed her into a Gorgon with snakes for hair. Her gaze would turn men to stone. My taking out the nail file was a sign of rejection, calling forth my inner Medusa.

Trapped by Poseidon in a Chevy Impala 
	A sonnet for the survivors

No one asks the babysitter for permission.
The maiden and Poseidon in a Chevy Impala.
The endless dark road along the St. Mary’s River, 
lit by a muted moon. The conversation. 
Do you date? Do you kiss boys? 
Questions slither where he doesn’t belong. 
Would Poseidon violate me? Dump me 
in the river? My purse. My long metal nail file. 
As sharp as the edge of a broken mirror. My hair,
swarming snakes. I sit coiled, ready to strike. 
Flashing my serpentine smile into my knife. 
Into his eyes. Frozen stones.

He won’t dare claim She enticed me
when Medusa calls the police. 

© Barbara Harris Leonhard

Trapped by Poseidon in a Chevy Impala