Girded With A Copperhead

On my first cup of coffee.
I am changing.

I am girded with a copperhead.
I am scratching every itch I have.

I am fine. Fine
except for the song on the radio I don’t know.

It sounds familiar. A song from
two minutes ago.

A song
from younger days

although it is new. It is
not even five years old.

No song is old enough
to be remembered.

The copperhead
becomes a song. The copperhead

sings to me. The radio
sings to me. It all sings

to me. Sings to me from
two seconds back

and here I am
coming up to it, hurrying up

to catch up to where it has been.
It has been a thousand places

before reaching me. It is a song
from a snake’s gut.

Thin,
reedy, ready to change me.

Having my second cup of coffee now.
I am changing. Charging, perhaps.

The snake is nowhere to be seen. In place
inside me. I am calmer now

and feeling electricity within.
Coiled up. Every two minutes

I catch up with time.
It is not a good time.

Later I will go to the store. It won’t be
a good time. It will fill

with snake bites. A song I don’t know
sung by someone who feels

long ago old though she is not
and I will close my eyes,

let that poison flow through me
from the mouth of the copperhead.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T