Last summer, two discrete young snakes left their skin
on my small porch, two mornings in a row. Being
postmodern now, I pretended as if I did not see
them, nor understand what I knew to be circling
inside me. Instead, every hour I told my son
to stop with his incessant back-chat. I peeled
a banana. And cursed God—His arrogance,
His gall—to still expect our devotion
after creating love. And mosquitoes. I showed
my son the papery dead skins so he could
know, too, what it feels like when something shows up
at your door—twice—telling you what you already know.
YOU ARE READING
A Collection For Those Who Enjoy Poetry
PoetryThis is just a book of poetry. Some people really like just reading poems, and that's what this is. Some are by me, but some are just my favorite poems from other authors. All of whom I will credit in the separate chapters. If you're into that kind...
