You tied yourself up tight with snakes
To a flagpole, and to the legs of metal chairs & tables, and to other people’s wrists. Dark green snakes those were – Arlington snakes.
They were a soliloquy of muscle.
They’ve tightened their coils whenever they must, whenever you got to be reminded, punctual like conscience. At 17 already you’d built your longbow with a serpent, and went shooting cobra arrows through the air. In feverish nights a cottonmouth cooled your forehead, its belly cold as bugle.
And when the time comes, there’ll be again a rattle of twin blades approaching over the tree line, not unlike applause: