A snake lives in the outhouse
that has a crescent moon on the door.
It hides in the hole on the bench
beneath the shit of the whole family
and anyone else who might just be passing it by.

My parents forbade me to go in the night time
when there is no light to see my steps
and too many stones and fallen leaves
under which something could hide.

Something which might be
attracted to the warmth of my body
and the tired patches under my eyes.

Some nights are rife with need, though,
and it’s never been for me to decide
the rhythms of my own body.

A snake lives in the outhouse
under the tallest oak tree in the yard,
and I missed it while looking up into the branches.

Its bite came like the seconds between
the cup on the table
becoming shards on the floor
scattered into the words
I should’ve known better.

Cradling my injured foot in a night that was too dark,
yelling for a house that was too far,
I sliced the puncture with a knife myself,
and sucked out the poison with my mouth.

The truth is, though, that
no matter what I do,
the venom will be there forever.