Coiling, uncoiling, spreading lengthwise

across a branch to bask, the queensnake

absorbs pleasure quietly,

 

scales glinting like sequins in the sun,

naïve of her cabaret mien. Her vocabulary,

narrow: tongue   river   crunch   tadpole  

gulp. She doesn’t think about legs

rules   television, is always

 

simply eating. The queensnake is easily

handled, docile, unlikely to bite your hand

when you stroke her. Her head feels

like a sticker book and you say so,

are sure she understands exactly

 

because you are a snake, or

a past loved self is the snake,

the sun warm on her shoulders

at the school field and eating

bologna because she loves it. The river

 

is polluted in hundreds of reptiles,

sunning, birthing live offspring in Spring,

fucking men who they hate, not

reading, not writing, prelingual,

wrapped in blue blankets like wombs,

all coiled in a circle in Hunter Pitkin’s garage

timidly spinning their first spin-the-

bottle. You tell the snakes you love them—

 

snakes, I love you!, risking contamination

by anal musk, and dunk your head in the water

to forget words you’ve learned besides hunger

and yes and like that and more—

 

your lower your body onto a root,

tuck your arms under your chest,

and wait around until they go numb.