Sometimes my father sends me to the room 
where he keeps the church snakes. He knows I’m afraid. 
I don’t set a foot in till the lights come up bright. 

Once a snake got loose and had to be caught. 
It coiled in the middle of the room, shocking 

as when I broke free of puberty.

Snakes have no ears, but they feel you coming from way off. 
Before I get a hand at the knob, they’re ready,
rattles rasping. Hairs rise up all along my skin.
It’s what happens when boys look at me now. 

New tongues speak in my body. 

Sometimes I writhe, a belly-crawler, a tree branch grown 
crooked. My father doesn’t look right at me anymore. 

Not since the Devil slithered into me and set up shop. 

Snakes, he looks in the eye, holding 
each scaled body high, with both hands.
Whenever one strikes him, prayers fly.

I’ve heard venom makes your heart race,
splits your skin wide.