Six dead white snakes
What am I?
When it storms on Peconic Bay
power surges (+)
another one bites the dust (-)
My hemoglobin makes a solid vessel for lightning and
oxygen-less-air.
Like the wind beneath my father’s wings.
Will I traverse Atlantic torrential in search of electricity and
American land?
Is that who I am?
Six dead white snakes
Will I come back home?
Most killers know their vice by name
But I only know the touch
Like summer thunder,
like going under, like degrading shards of aquamarine porcelain and
under-water-teaparties.
Like giving up before I need to.
Will he suck his teeth as my carbon dissolves into chlorine?
Will I be shallow enough to hear it?
Six dead white snakes
Still the Good book thinks I’m worth it?
Father tells me right from wrong
Don’t trust that outlet.
Don’t clean the mirror.
Don’t think of tracing your finger down her navel as if to write amorous poetry on her soft white skin akin to
parchment-and-porcelain.
Like the sound of celibacy but Do concede the baby’s blood that falls to the sheets when He chooses.
Will I marry the bearded child and become his golden signet to melt down when he needs the money?
Is that why I carry this weight?
Six dead white snakes
Is this resentment or obsession?
Today I wished upon a navy yard
That I’d be drawn across The Rack
That my extended skin would make me appear less-limb-less.
I have broken every pair of my mother’s heels
snapped-stiletto-peeled-sole.
Like a rabid dog, except I am no dog. My only similitude with the navy yard girls is my luminescent shield.
Should I peel off my scales so the coroner’s tools can reach my coveting soul?
Is that how they find out I’m boneless?
Six dead white snakes, one dying
What am I missing, other than everything?
- Bury me in the San Callisto catacombs with my husband’s signet ring
→ (if melted, porcelain may do)
→ so I can afford southern tolls.
- Don’t unlock my collar or close the casket until
post-procession-please
Like the party, love the presents.
Won’t it be too hot for a snakeskin scarf down there?
Ha-ha.
Six dead white snakes, one dying
This is how I want to be remembered.
I am NOT your wife NOT your mother NOT your bitch.
My job is not to give life; it is
to coil and constrict and consume and calculate and charm and champion and cheat and kill
In the coroner’s office, put a stethoscope to my three-chamber-heart and hear
not-not-not.
Six dead white snakes. Another one bites the dust
You bred this disfigured riddle
So what am I?
not-not-not.