Even

Cockles and mussels, cochlea and muscles, sinews of serpents and the lithe forms of flowers. Sinister spikes at head-height surprise eyes stupefied by color.

A snake I killed myself by accident

On accident,

On Occidental door frames squeezing tight enough to crush its rippling spine, its supple scales, to glaze its eyes for a final shed,

of life.

I placed it, gently, on my window sill, covered it with paper, to think upon the ledge of death and the tender give and sway of life on this iron sphere, this sponge, of earth. 

This world is a warring place

Where which is real? The lullaby or the threat on the other side of the locked door, the folding of family laundry, or the rinsing of blood off the hands?

Press each heat-tossed sock a moment longer to your belly.

What can I offer but one clear bird-call in field where no one stops to hear,

Or in a forest where no one can?

What can a woman do, in the end, against the hardened face of a man?