The fabric of her dress is
web-thin
torn, greasy
with age.
Her tangled hair
streaked white.
We are walking by the ocean
and I am mostly
listening.
The air smells wrong
she says. A statement
nothing more.
I don’t reply.
She soothes herself
stroking the serpent
resting around her neck,
whispers,
Good girl, good girl.
The serpent
opens sleepy eyes,
readjusts its’ curl.
A plastic bottle
bobs on the water.
She sees it
with tidal wave eyes.
They called me a demon.
Water sighs in and out
on the shore.
Her owl follows
at a distance
hooting messages.
Her glance captures the landscape.
They think they are gods,
she says, scooping sand
and letting it run
through her fingers.
Her nails are bitten to the quick.
They cut down the tree.
They made women into
walking sticks and
drove me away.
She picks up a pebble
and kisses it tenderly,
sends it skimming and bouncing
across the waves.
But, (she raises one arm high
and smiles at me
as the waves begin
to surge)
I didn’t go.
