Poet’s Showcase
Still life with snake
By Jesse Nathan
The days are tired and they keep shorter hours,
but this is not the point, it happens every winter,
I wane exhausted and naps take twice as long
to heal bleeding legs and aching fingers,
But it’s not living, exactly, that wears me away
like pencil lead, no, it’s the restless worry and confusion,
the grimy fear of really living, an oily preoccupation
with everything or nothing, or with Jared’s bleeding legs,
I wanted to walk him home last night and find some salve,
the sores were reddening, small scissor bites infected
and pussing, I thought of a picture in American Photographs
1900-2000, my own legs still fresh with blood,
I tried to write a poem but collapsed
into another nap, Stephanie far away in someone else’s bed,
her warmth a memory, I remembered the picture was called
Still Life with Snake, freezing a serpent as it coiled
round rose vase and teacup, a reptilian convolvulus
strangling flowers, circling toward a tiny mouse-filled teacup
preparing to sink its teeth sharp as thorns,
tongue sipping the air, poised to strike where fear hunches:
quivering, furry and white with legs caught in a serpentine ring,
Cold again, I wake up, put on my glasses, my scabs have ripped off,
the bed blanketed in deep and solitary silence, the sound of only one
holding his breath.