Don't let the head full of snakes distract you. Do not be cowed by the presence of Greek gods and goddesses or lulled by the vaguely familiar details of a story you only think you know.
Yes, Medusa was a mythological monster whose hair was a nest of snakes. Yes, anyone who looked upon her face would turn to stone. And yes, even after she was decapitated by Perseus, Medusa still had the power to paralyze.
But in her new poetry collection, "The Loneliest Girl," the Los Angeles-based writer and publisher Kate Gale looks at Medusa and sees the woman behind the terrifying creature. The woman who was raped by the sea god Poseidon in Athena's temple, and then Athena made her pay the price.
Medusa didn't become a monster because of anything she did, but because of something that was done to her. That is the part of Medusa's story that gets lost amid the snakes, the beheading, and the way Perseus used her head as a weapon and triumphed on the battlefield.
For Gale, that neglected narrative is where the tragedy is. Also, the truth.
"I think the erasure of women's voices has gone on for centuries. If you want to tell a story of something that has happened to you, you don't feel like you are completely heard," said Gale.
"The fact that she is alone. The fact that she feels like there is nobody in her corner. The fact that she has to be ashamed of what she's done, and what she's done is she has been assaulted. All of that is familiar to us, even now."
In "The Loneliest Girl," which is Gale's seventh book of poetry, Medusa's story does not begin with Poseidon or end with Perseus. She is not cursed by a vengeful goddess or demoted to a supporting role in some hero's war story. But she is no stranger to the front lines.
The collection opens with "There are ten things you need to know to be a woman," a guide to the battlefield that is womanhood. Each item takes on a different enemy — leering boys, perilous college parties, jealous co-workers, judgmental religions — but all of them include the same warning:
"They come for you."
The final poem is "Stumbling toward Grace," in which the narrator asks herself a series of pointed questions — Are you thinking of killing yourself? So, are you going to live? — before landing on the question that sets her free.
"What would you like to do?"
The poem ends with the answer, which is humble, hopeful and defiantly human.
"I have my life to work on this single thread. There is unrestrained stupidity and there is grace. In my dreams, I stumble toward grace."
"What I hope for is that people would come away from this with the idea that once you transform the narrative that you're inside of, that's everything," Gale said. "You get to transform the narrative. I really believe that."
Gale transformed her own narrative in a major way at an early age. In 1981, she fled the New Hampshire religious cult where she was raised for an outside world that she knew almost nothing about. She was 18 years old, and she had no money, no driver's license and and no idea about where she was going to go next.
She eventually made her way to Virginia, where she met a guy who helped her figure out that next move. Not on purpose, but sometimes the creative gods move in mysterious ways.
"I was dating this guy who was also very religious, and he told me that God said I was not to go to college. It never occurred to me to go to college, but I immediately decided, 'That's it. I'm going to college.'"
A stint at a community college in Virginia led to Arizona State University, where Gale caught the attention of acclaimed poet Rita Dove, who convinced her to major in English. Gale went on to get her doctorate in English from the Claremont Graduate University.
In 1994, she co-founded the Pasadena-based nonprofit Red Hen Press, which publishes poetry, fiction and creative nonfiction; organizes readings and other literary events; and presents 10 literary awards to emerging writers every year.
Gale says that "The Loneliest Girl" is the most difficult book she has ever written. But now that she has given Medusa a voice, she has discovered how much power there is in sharing it with the people who need to hear it. Including the author herself.
"When I read it (in public) for the first time at the (Red Hen) press, it felt like I had started to let go of the darkness. What I have experienced in readings is people feeling a solidarity with me. And that feels strengthening, in a way. It feels like I have come up for air."
