When I was little,
my mother often threw me snakes
into the bed
so I could play.
I picked them up,
lifted and squeezed them,
preventing from reaching my face.
They opened mouths,
trying to push air
through their throats.
With a woman in bed,
when I get out of her hands,
I sometimes fall,
grab the last in the fist.
Clench my tongue, twist my back;
turn blue.
Then I don’t let the air out,
scratch my neck. Pretend
it was a snake bite. Play around.