If I were a snake
and I found that
I had been accused
of tricking Eve
into eating fruit
that God said
"Hey, don't eat this!"
so the whole world
rotted, I'd demand
a lawyer--
isn't it enough
that people have stolen
my territory and call
each other "snakes"
when they mean thief
or liar?
isn't it enough
that I have to crawl
through their land fills
and nuclear puke,
then they toss me
in their churches?
This year I've put glads in
my garden, the death
flower greeting me
in smoky July. Glads
make a living off funerals,
performing like a minister
who says the dearly
departed is in Heaven.
Glads guard the body,
brighten the coffin. Yellow
glads are particularly
deathly, petered out suns,
yellow covered by night's
oily rag. Let these yellows
alert me when I'm humming
"I Think We're Alone Now"
and thinking about what
dinner will be--let them
bloom when day's arms
can't hold up even
the lightest dusk for long.