Tuesday, August 19, 2008

The Snake


A snake bit me,

Filling my arm with clouds

And my feet with sand.


A snake read my poems

And complained that it could not warm itself on them,

That tears are not stars

And that the desert does not forgive.


I said, "Serpent,

I would bash your brains in if I could,

I would run if I could,

But you have poisoned me

And I am decades from any help,

And from any soft kiss that might have saved me."


"You begin to bore me," replied the snake.

"Lay down in your nest of poems and die,

Even though they will not warm you;

Even though tears are not stars,

And the desert

Never

Forgives."

3 comments:

Nichole said...

OK, dear Shay, I cannot help myself. So many of these are just totally beautifu;. The remind me of seventeen minatures done on brooches.

Essences of the lyric with a language that is absolutely always right and controlled. No wasted words and an impact emotionally like a gathering wave at the seashore on a storm-flecked night.

You write so very well. Publish these and make a book, darling.

They are remarkable.

Nichole said...

oops, "seventeenth-century miniatures done on brooches"

My typing is sometimes very poor. *smile*

Fireblossom said...

*blush*

Thank you, Nichole. I really would love to publish a book. But, forgive me if I engage a different typist lol.

I appreciate your comments very much ;-)