[Ballerina in a Death’s Head, Salvador Dali, 1939]


                                                                                      —mickey morgan

The recognition that white snakes were arms

of women–mother’s nurture, winding blench–

rose through your skin insidious as steam,

uncoiled from long submersion, seeping out

of smug protected memory. You sit

complacent, feel her fold her arms in rolls

of dough around your sacrificial skin

Your heart confesses murmurs Me! Me!

It babbles scarlet, braids the twining thought

into contrition wrapped as this, you can’t

untangle it. The knot is tied and fear

flips over, You can’t think where

you ought to run.


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