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