013020

We have entered those well-remembered times
when the politicians ooze and crack
staked out in the fields
where they can do the least damage.
The priests in their ivory robes
glide through the villages
bending down to upturned faces
tapping those who are worthy
of uplift to the Cathedral.
We bow our heads
pray the rains come soon.

042119b

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