Did I tell you I was once a black rat snake?

Before the pine tree in my backyard knew me

or even my mother knew me

I had been a black rat snake– a licorice ribbon–

a linked stringy menagerie of scale

I learned to crawl on my

belly like most people determined to be

women– ate the roots of the trees

to make me grow longer– spread out

poured myself into the hot grittle

like a pancake– make me thinner

make me thinner– so I can

unhinge my jaw and consume everything

I’ve ever forgotten.  I had found myself

under feet and whispered that

broken feather ribs were my fault

for not climbing the shad berry bush

on my belly– I pretend to have hips

but there was only bone.

— I was supposed to be a stair case

not a railing–  I was supposed to listen to

the herons but I always liked

the voices of the Fowler’s toads–

Oh and how I wished to be a copperhead

but I could only be the inky veins

of poet strewn about the trees–

an unfinished brush stroke–

I would not expect you to think

that I’m a black rat snake now–

but I still crawl on my belly

and eat tree roots and often wish

I could be a copperhead–

but only end up here with the snake still

alive in all my veins.