Lissa kills the snake with her hands wrapped around its endless
neck, the feathers falling from its head, while we wondered,
what chicken did a snake eat and then turn to mane, what snake
took the time to wheedle each quill between its scales?
Lissa kills the snake as the curtains fall to the ground, smacking sharp
like canvas sails, the wind a brush of what comes next, the inked
branches on her neck creeping towards her jaw, pulling
at the corners of her bottom lip bit between her teeth, and that snake
so yellow with its squirming, twisting around her ankles
—a newborn’s hand grasping desperately at his mother’s finger.
Lissa kills the snake, but goddamn she doesn’t want to,
she doesn’t want a snake in her kitchen, parading around like the square
of sunshine on the floor was made for its coil, and causing
each curtain to fall in the struggle from it’s place like a flag falling,
like one more thing she can no longer contain.