not the venomous kind, but garter snakes
with long yellow stripes. From my elbows
down, silk-scales, ropes of living muscle.
Where my hands should be, instead:
their oval heads, black tongues tasting
the bedroom air. In the shower, my twin
snakes hug the walls, knocking over shampoo
bottles, shaving cream. Brushing my teeth
is an exercise in trust. Left-snake clamps
her mouth to squeeze the toothpaste,
right-snake wields the toothbrush, clumsy.
A clatter of bristles, plastic, teeth. My cats
see new exotic toys, hyper-realistic, swinging
from my arms. Hissing and snapping.
It takes weeks, months, to teach my snake-
hands tenderness. How to kiss, instead of strike.
Rachel Pittman is an MFA candidate at McNeese State University where she serves as Poetry Editor for the McNeese Review. Her writing has appeared or is forthcoming in miniskirt mag, Cartridge Lit, Stillpoint Literary Magazine, Gingerbread House, and Whale Road Review.