Some people like their snakes dead. I like them very much alive, thank you. I have a neighbor who killed my snake and doesn’t think I know about it. I will have to address that at some point. Black racers are harmless, beautiful creatures that are a boon to any Florida garden. Yes, it’s my snake, because I’m the one who gardens around here. The neighbor just wheels around on his wheelchair exclaiming how (1) if he still had his legs, he could dig faster than me and (2) nobody can grow corn in the front yard. He may be right on one accord.
So I’m thinking about dead snakes because some time ago poet Stephen Jarrell Williams was kind enough to publish a poem I had written in his journal, Dead Snakes. Much of the work found there revolves around themes of poison, danger, mystery. My own work that appears there spilled out of a dream. It’s called Spill. I hope you enjoy it.
And let the snakes live, people!