sometimes i am the farmer —
the snow whoops in my lungs as i take
the viper, scales glistening,
fangs nowhere to be found
to warm in my worn coat,
and i smell the venom but choose to mistake it
for bitterness of winter wind,
same as what precedes the bloom and harvest
that will surely come —
though comes quicker the sting of venom,
worse than ice’s bite,
and i knew better than to look for spring
where only death grows.

other times, i embody the viper —
coiled tight in banks of bitter snow,
blood barely inching as a hulking figure
scoops me alongside, as if
to play peace —
yet their rough, ungloved hands grip too tightly,
their coat smelling of slaughter and age,
and at the cost of nothing that i can see,
mistrust circulates, rapid, as i lunge
again, again, again —
this will teach you not to touch
what you were never given.

in nightmares, i am amalgamated —
come nightfall, i crouch in wait,
to calculate just how far
i should unhinge my shivering,
angry jaw, axe in raw and shedding hands, before i
hack the divide
and devour you whole.