Leonore Wilson: Adder

Little duende of pith and phlegm

in the emery winds


rustling like mountain shadows

through water,


leaving your eggshell cavities

murmurous


while the ground below

turns to dust and the air blooms


with smoke;

whose earth is it,


beast,

lonely disciple —


what exegesis of the heart


did you prophesize;

what blood red catacombs


above our heads

when the heavens


opened?


Why is love so insistent

so urgent, why am I called,


from numbness

to knowing;


veil, hood, mask

I have nothing to protect me;

      

the fire came,


the decadent flames

slowly inched forward 


like an infant crawling feet first

down a steep flight


of stairs;
          

is this how my novella ends--

some elderly new future
        

against the black particles

as if they were wafers of glass


from the body of Christ;


how do I disentangle

myself from lightning,


the last dashed

embers…

Copyright 2021 Leonora Wilson

Leonore Wilson lives in Napa, California. Her work has appeared in many periodicals, including Quarterly West, Iowa Review and Terrain.org.

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Vipera berus (wikimedia)