turning, writhing
not constricting, but inhabiting, assuming
a serpent, orange as the early sun
a woman, pale as the withered toes of a corpse
her face, her expression
poised and pursed
with eyes that see everything and nothing
hair stricken by electricity, turned to straw
sprouting from her scalp
she seems vaguely disappointed with the serpent
that coils her neck, her wrists, her waist
tribal, territorial, dominant
it does not faze her
she is performing a ritual, one that she’s acted out
a hundred times now, and it’s dragging custom to her
now
her brow, arched on stilts, thin and fast as a
runner, a dark, demanding frame to her eyes, her
eyes that see everything and nothing
I feel upset, angry, confused at the woman
why must she go on not caring?
she is the most powerful, steely-faced woman in the
room, she adorns a snake, she commands her art,
and she doesn’t care

© 2015 Stellular Scribe