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"
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