issue 36 > poetry > leavitt

Stretched out on this windowsill,
a yard long, end to end,
I find the skin a snake abandoned, the length
of willingness to die and live again.

I kneel, all admiration,
and chant her name. Too often sung,
it thins to syllables.
A thousand skins shed off this tongue.






Also by Michele Leavitt:

Long-Tailed Weasel in Fog