Rattle

The tan ropes are rattlesnakes that tie and untie themselves, clumps of spines untangled from earth, loops and S’s curling, like damaged ribs. My body is a tight cage that the snakes move away from. My hands: closed canyons, manzanita, sage leaves, moon-dew marked by footprints. I watch you pick one up, feeling distress from its rattle cut into my nerves. Heat from its mouth hisses, like splintered glass. You hand it to me, it crawls through my fingers: skinny road-lines on a map charting the back fields that lead to the foothills. Red dust flames in the air. Dry rain falls. A voice says: “It’s a conspiracy. This is how they do it: They shed their skin to be unrecognized in the future. Their shed skins are thoughts with blank memories.” The voice continues: “Be cautious of the young ones. They’ll charm you with their bodily curves, then secretly overthrow you, defame you, and trouble your future.” I stand here in the red foothills and can see that the snakes have no empathy. Like a shot, something burns my ears and burns my hand: a hot pistol. Suddenly, dawn sun-paints my bedroom. I lie silently still listening to my mind’s unfinished opinions. The insides of my thighs, fiery, like a venomous bite, the sheets cast off, like shed skin, and my thoughts flame and burn, like morning’s dry mouth. _______________________________________ This poem is from my fourth book 'The Translator' from 'transcendent Zero Press' 2015 it was first published in the magazine, 'Orion headless' Editor: Sara Fitzpatrick Comito Amazon search: "the translator/dah"