S@lv@d°r D@l!’s Mannequin

Stretching out straight like a boa preparing to swallow you—

at three, you saw a golden asp in its cage at the zoo,

at thirteen, you twisted your fingers and palms 

into hand shadow snakes, flat and hissing,

at thirty, you work for a greedy woman. 

You write a chapter of her book for her.

You walk her white dog on the sidewalk outside her hotel.

You set her dining table for her, 

place a fork and knife on either side of a coiled anaconda,

and serve dessert, a small deer for the snake inside her to eat.

You attend a party in her honor,

walk the white dog in the parking lot,

write a chapter and say, It’s brilliant, what she’s written.

You dream her pages are full as a classroom, full of machine guns,

they shine like a Pacific oil slick, those noisy toys, 

they recite the alphabet for you, treasured figurines. 

You attend a party in her home.

Again, in her home, you review sketches at the kitchen table

while she fills your water cup, 

while the white dog coils at your feet, an albino snake.

You give your life for her greed, you in the front of her classroom.

When you write down a thought on the clock, it belongs to her, too,

even the one about starting new, long before the caged snake,  

even the one in which you are born as one of the guns.