For all the things I carry – forethought of grief, caul
of fury, burst stars in the back of my eyes —
it doesn’t take much to wound a woman
like me. My kingdom is a snake field; my inheritance, a tradition
of superstition that says snakes have fangs and fangs
love necks like mine. I found myself facedown in the garden,
ready to be devoured — prey and praying with no one to hear me
scream. I am sick on ancestral venom. There are snakes circling
my feet, snakes soaking in my kitchen sink. They bite
and I bleed a grandmother. Tender this chorus that unskins me,
drains me
of red-fanged fury. For everything I have become,
there is a grandfather spit down the drain; a snake
breaking itself open in a field.
Exodus
Amanda Roth (she/her) is a mother, writer, and folklorist living in Central Texas. Her work can be found in Portland Review, Hayden’s Ferry Review, Literary Mama, Jet Fuel Review, Five Minutes, and elsewhere. Follow her at https://msha.ke/amandarothpoetry