Snakes

I hear them in the dark – a tangled carpet under the bed sighing with one voice – waiting for me to swing my legs over the edge, press my feet into the soft pile, their tongues flickering with chance. They have an eye for ankles – chilled bone, absence of flesh. Some nights I give them what they want. Others, I hiss the story of their fall from grace, listen to their skins chafe.

In the mornings, the floor glitters with their rip and slither, the smell of overripe fruit. I dream of a garden, my own skin splitting open, my new face like a moon.

Lynn Rees