Serpents
Phillip Watts Brown
I I was adolescent, a green field. At night, questions uncoiled and whispered through me, troubling the grass. My heart lifted its head, a deer startled by the dark scent. II Round face shining like a moon in the computer glow, I opened a window. Searching answers, I found riddles instead, a strange language of the body. My eyes widened, overripe with men. Dawn’s wildfire edged closer. Black cables slunk back behind the desk. III Shame feeds on itself: a terrible ouroboros. Silence cinched around me like a belt and a bruise bloomed, the flesh tender where it tightened. I straightened in my chair hoping no one would notice. My spine still arches from what could hold it.
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