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,
a sorry daughter, feel her fold
her arms in rolls of dough around your skin.
Your heart confesses murmurs–babbling scarlet,
braiding twining thoughts into contrition.
Wrapped as this, you can’t untangle it.
The knot is tied and fear flips over, you are scared.
You can’t think where you ought to run.