The Snake
Where I come from
they say the snake must never be provoked,
its path must not be blocked,
its den must not be disturbed.
You must live with it —
for months —
head turned the other way,
watching it only out of the corner of your eye,
hoping it won’t attack.
Only in winter,
when frozen under a stone,
the wicked one can’t see,
and it won’t seek revenge.
That’s when you find its hiding place
and kill it.
I don’t know how many generations
have lived like this.
Repeated bites have poisoned their blood.
Mouths shut tight, they’ve waited in silence
for the right season,
the right time,
the nest empty of young.
The snake feels at ease in those parts.
It sheds its skin before their eyes
like gloves thrown to challenge a duel,
it sings
its rustling songs through their courtyards.
They still wait,
the moon’s weight on their shoulders.
Do they know, in the snow,
they’re only killing
the dead snake?