of snakes. Not the nice kinds of snakes, like the one
my aunt had in the big house with the roommates--
it slithered across a rug of the United States
when I called "Here, Rosy!" (Well, I moved to where
she was heading before beckoning. She came every
time.) These are black, with green indentations
randomly scattered across their thin bodies.
And they're hungrier and hungrier, yet I don't
know how to get mice through my skull, so
the snakes whip, hiss, and bite--and I become a deranged
puppet, socking myself in the head, or crying.
As if I could knock a hole through my cranium,
or, literally, cry my eyes out, so the snakes could
escape, make haste for home and supper.