Liza Flum
Rain fishes into the river
on broken cords.
I walk out until I see snake.
Something honest in me
does not offer feet.
Does not offer arms.
Snake, I like
to be held. A hardness
coils around me. It says,
Go get. Don’t expect.
I remember brushing
your gut with my finger,
a cascade of gold rings.
What plenty condensed
in your body, snake.