Ouroboros

by A.M. Kennedy

The snake was hungry, so I gave it my share of the plate,
and when it was cold I gave it my skin, let it wrap its scaled body
around my throat, around my wrist,
and when it bit me, I was surprised.

There’s nothing in the garden that can’t be ruined
by a hundred different things, all competing at entropy,
I name the snake Murphy, and when it sheds its first skin,
I take it as my own.

In the summer we read by the lake and I delicately tongue the
sibilants as if tasting how they might lend themselves
to my own tongue.

In the winter the meat is meager and Murphy
tells me he’ll take a hand that feeds instead of starve,
but now I’m tough like a jerky, muscled and thin,
skin covered in protective scales.

In the sunlight my skin glimmers, each shed prettier than the last,
and I too grow hunger for the taste of something
between my teeth, soft and gullible that won’t put up a fight.

Murphy thinks I am beautiful in the spring, he warms me up,
and when he finally lets me wrap my body around his wrist
I sink my teeth in to satisfy the urge.
He is surprised.