But the serpent said to the woman, “You will not die.” 
     —Genesis 3.4 

If you were whole and willing 
I’d invite you under my skirt 
to hold up my stocking, 
little snake, silk muscled and elastic. 

But you’re timid, and you’ve lost 
your tail tip: a mishap 
in a cool August foreshadow, 
or unluck among hawks.

 I’m glad you aren’t your brother. 
I found him, flat and empty, 
crossing the road, pressed smooth 
by one tread after another. 

Charming! Your serious eyes 
and quick pink tongue, your 
swimmy gestures toward the garden, 
your liquefaction. 

I’m right behind you, darling, 
though we’re both cautious 
and curious. All these years on earth, 
yet I still have a thousand questions.