Snakery

I wanted to say
let my people write,
or sing, or paint.

Let them take their hair down and
doff their shoes to march together
with intention
on the crusted earth.

I wanted to grow large
with moral authority,
puff up like a hissing adder,
she whose single lung
balloons to strike fear
in predators

by which I mean
all those who are
not my people,
all those who would silence
dissent and condemn
wild creativity,
if possible with a single
continuing resolution.

I wanted to say this
or something like it,
until I learned how an adder
rises and puffs
in response to anything
fast or close,

by which I mean
perceived threat.

You could be a hapless wanderer
too close
to the tall grass
she favors
and still she’d strike,

and don’t we do this —

separate ourselves into factions,
perpetrator or victim,
adder or errant wanderer,

and don’t we claim lineage
to the ones
who bear witness
to our strength,

puff ourselves up
with our righteousness
and attempt to disown the rest?

They’re all my people,
and yours.

We belong to each other,
and to the teeming, writhing
mass of human acting
and reacting

and when we can’t bear to see
our weakness mirrored
in the others,
don’t we rise up,
incite fear,

and strike
and strike
and strike?

–Melinda Coppola