Once, she found a rattle. Dry and brittle as an old woman’s bones, the bones she would someday walk around in by day and at night lay down to sleep beneath soft cotton sheets.
But not yet. That time exists in the no-woman’s-land of “tomorrow, not me, I am still young, in the middle phase, raising my young.”
The Snake who’d left this gift lives in the laws beyond “gated community,” a rattle this long evidence of many a meal, all taken alive, hollow-fangs-poison piercing deep into flesh.
Snake moves below the boundaries, the fences, no use for homebuilding tools, save hunger, finding both bed and breakfast in a gopher hole. Snake slides in, dines, sleeps. Killing is life. Killing. Sleeping. Killing.
Where is that rattle, now that Snake has slid up her spine, through her yoni, white hot piercing the roof of her canal, awakening each chakra, veering left to wrap itself tenderly, powerfully around her heart, then up the neck and throat, through the crown, gaping its mouth to the Sky to blossom like a white lotus, draping its petals over her head, her face, becoming her. All with love.
Where is that rattle, the rattle found in her 20s, her 30s, when these Nature finds were common, expected, when she took life itself for granted?
Recording from a few nights ago, of Snake rattling.