Snake Poem

Liza Flum


Fishhook balanced atop
a wet fingertip
does not pierce, snags
on the first froth of skin. 

I think I grow clean. 

All my life, I wanted to be
a hinged mechanism. 

Snake builds skin like a cabin
on the shoreline, studs it
with glass oblongs. 

Leaves and leaves the house standing.

Muscles pour as dark water,
the way a wave cleans.