Poem
by Jessica Vidrine • Photo by Karen Slagle
 No one ever knew how we'd sneak to the cornfield, finding its center so we couldn't be seen. When we were seated, legs folded and crossed, facing each other, our knees touched. The bruises like soft wax on our legs were small embers burning, and you'd lean forward, touch my milky face and kiss me. By then you had kissed me several times, but still I'd wonder why it was always slimy. I should have expected the warmth of your slippery tongue, its smooth skin and the way it'd slither in and dance. Yet, each time I was dazed by its forcefulness, something swelling and rising in my mouth, like a twisted tail thrashing against my cheek. That day we found a dead snake sun-stroked in the cornfield, you laughed, and dared me to touch it. I did, its swelling skin like soft silk against my own. Its body gleamed in the sun. I imagined how it must have glided unseen through the field, whole body moving in unison, its mouth closing around a mouse taking it whole, sealing it in. I imagined the way it would feel draped around my shoulders touching me and I smiled. |