Snakes for the Living
Her mother’s sickness grew on her like a thick pelt,
though the thought of losing her felt like being flayed,
peeled, pinned for examination
Sorry your mom bloodied the sheets Easter morning
Sorry your mom can’t touch you without crying
Now, daughter feline and wandering
knuckle bumps on windows
knuckles filling a blossomed mouth
Mother’s brain lurking beneath smooth rocks
. . . . . oily ribbons from black tree limbs
. . . . . . . . . . banded tails and liquid bodies
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . death at the river bottom, spring-loaded
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . spade-headed
Forked tongue promises and Sunday
broken plates, the warrior of youth
Death in waves, a floral perfume
ignoring the violence of a girl’s
broken heart
***
Gina Stratos is a writer living in northern Nevada. She enjoys collecting words, sipping buttery Chardonnay, and correcting other people’s grammar. Her work can be read in The Meadow, Door Is a Jar, Rabid Oak, and Dark River Review.
