Sunday, April 10, 2011

What's caged in my brain

There's snakes in my brain. My brain's made
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.

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