By Daniel Aristi

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:


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Daniel Aristi

Daniel Aristi / About Author

Daniel Aristi was born in Spain. He studied French Literature and Economics. He lives now in Switzerland with his wife and two children. Daniel’s work has been recently featured or is forthcoming in Puerto del Sol, Berkeley Poetry Review, and Fiction Southeast.

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