Each snake spits a tune of spiralescent gusto—

Some noisy utterances, some soulful wails—

Underneath each, bushels of coniferous cotton

Cling to each other like geminate limbs

In a hammock, swaying in salty air.

But equilibrium is effervescent

As grease-tinged interlopers slide their serpents into my nest

Wring out my neonates with feckless fascination—

My babies cry in chorus, a clamor of slash.

Misshapen, twisted into horrific tufts, my snakelets

Only find relief when, throats stuffed with charms,

The open falls above gush against their coiled angst

Running through even the most distrustful babes

Until they each rest, finally caressed

By a consensual hand, finally loosed

Of the cumbersome expectation

To curl.

-Isaiah Rivera