by: Viktorsha Uliyanova

No home hides that snake,
Crawling up to my finger.
He is not wel -bred.
He limps through black waters,
He licks all the poisonous plants.
His stomach is hollow.
Moon-full, moon-hungry,
I want to feel his slenderness in my arms.
Upholstered with dead sockets,
Limp as a fish.
But he is not.
A fish, or a black-veiled worm.
He is the widow,
The egg-headed monarch, the virgin at childbirth.
He strokes my hair, gross-feeding charmer.
He burns, and lifts me up to a craving wake.