MEDUSA by Caravaggio, Oil on Canvas over
     Convex Wooden Shield, Diameter 55cm, 1597–98    

Too much pretty craves vinegar and
over-the-top ugly, ugly with panache.
Let the Cardinal pay for such bold
extremes, and let Rome open its sleep-
heavy eyes and see. Once again, Mario
screams in terror—a knack perfected
in Boy Bitten by a Lizard—eyes rolling
almost out of their sockets, mouth wide
and red, teeth bared, and the vipers
construct their own wet writhing mass
—sexual or deadly or both—huge tangle
that obliterates his own dark curls. His
nightmare yell pours out at us, and he
is not a he, but Medusa glimpsing
her mirrored self in Perseus's shield,
arterial blood jetting in streams from
her severed neck. And we don't know
where to look—no one has taught us
how to choose—the blood already
congealing, the frenzied snakes, that
mask of face pushing toward us, out
of the canvas, screaming itself awake.