Summer

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. 

 

Robin Coste Lewis en Voyage of the Sable Venus