This morning you almost choked
on a shred of snake molt.
It snuck into a spoonful of porridge,
and you coughed it up before
it became the embarrassing end
of you. Scales scatter
on your floorboards, cling
like dust to your soles.

You were only thirteen. The gr nite
of h m grow ng against khaki.

Scalp tight with day-old knotless
braids. Blue tunic stiff over knees
patched with tag tumbles.

Your feet dangled in the guidance
counsellor’s chair, the event
clogging your throat.

First, only his name escaped.
P s d n. Syllables grime-thick.

They asked, Why were you
in his office so late?

The tr ce of h s gr zzl d
h nds. Kn ckle h r a wood
white with winter.

You left the room, pink-eyed.
They cursed you force ripe.
Cursed your hair too long
and skirt too tight.

Your skin greened like a pear
cut before soft. Twist tips
grew hissing heads,
forked tongues swinging
at your waist.

You smothered them in satin
rose-knotted. Their fangs
tattered the headwrap.

Even now the hush-taunts
keep you up on your pillow
damp with venom. Every
night you consider unveiling
the bathroom mirror
you hid in white silk,

letting your rotten-fruit
flesh glaciate with stone.

Maybe then,
lips cemented shut,
they’ll say
Taken too soon.