The Ophidian Priestess
Her raddled face,
her ribs,
cobwebbed and brown,
loom like a leafless
tree,
behind the glass.
I whisper a prayer,
before the guide
moves
us to the next room,
I feel eyes upon me.
Dozing on the
balcony,
I dream honeyed
lisps,
urgency and
thrashing coils,
the sound of scales.
Awake on a shredded
cushion,
oozing punctures in
my arm,
an ache in my ribs
and elsewhere.
Monday morning,
scales glitter on my
pillow,
my unblinking face,
a stranger in the
mirror.
End of poem
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