Serpent

by Renwick Berchild

A road that winds back in on itself, handless creature
of the wood whose crown is dirt,

slow in pace
and intake.

Killing is a long trial,
that begins with observance and waiting. From cool dim morning
to the heat of high noon, darkness inserts itself
into the squeeze of time.

Growth doesn’t happen quickly, so why should death?
In a low light
roots makes headway with the bodies breaking down,

when smell becomes an omen and thought.

The stomach
is larger than the mind, more elastic and hungry;

a long belly is a continent, whose eye is the length of a grave.

What cannot walk must crawl, or roll,
or be pushed by the movement of kith and kin and foe.

A small handful of yearning, of thirsty need,
is good eating.

3 Comments to “Serpent”

  1. Wonderful, the elastic stomach makes me picture a snake expanding as it eats.

  2. Reblogged this on Raw.

If you enjoyed the poem. please leave a comment.

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.

%d bloggers like this: