From our car we see a woman walking down
the gray sidewalk, red-light glow her own
spotlight as we wait for it to change.
We’re late for a show downtown.
It’s winter, stone blue twilight.
She holds a cardboard sign
from this distance we can’t
or won’t read.

When Medusa was raped in Athena’s temple,
the goddess punished the mortal woman,
knotting her hair with vipers, condemning her
to watch the world through lowered lashes.
The gods knew how to punish,
but not as well as we do.

The woman on the sidewalk moves in peripheral.
Lifts her face toward a window, then down.
Moves to the next car. Looks up, looks down.
Eyes slip from her like black ice, as if
a glance from her would turn us to stone.
As if we are not already.

She pauses then at the car in front of us.
I see a car seat, little legs kicking in the dark.
A small hand bounces in a wave, and something
thaws in the night air. The woman gasps, great yawning
O and the corners of her mouth lifting at the sight
of the child, eyes wide, held in another’s
joy of beholding, and being beheld.