Alphabet Series: S

Pamela Murray Winters

The snake that stirs the apple
fixes it to fall,
slithers from the scene like Simpson:
slick, hard, immutable
Not a rattle, just a repeated ess in its wake—
a slipchain of shushes
a kiss with a snuffed-out eye
a mouth never touching the skin.
No fang on the smooth fruit.
No, it passes into privilege,
sheds its sin
like a skin.

 

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