I. The Snake

It was right there beside the dishwasher,
an ordinary domestic site, its only inhabitant,
until I walked in, a three-foot snake
coiling its black and brown markings
raising its triangular hood. I ran out
screaming.

II. The Scream

After it was all over, I wondered
about that scream. Could be the old terror,
the atavistic antipathy between woman and snake
ordained by Yahweh, or just the unexpected invasion
of my Cape Cod Eden. Could be the darker terror,
the attraction, older than Eden, to its phallic danger.
Before Genesis, the snake was her consort.
I wanted to touch it, to feel its slither.

III. The Kill

My scream brought help. Two men with rakes,
a baseball bat and a bag. Six neighborhood boys,
unable to contain their excitement, joined me
in a loud Greek Chorus of OhMyGod’s
as the creature, cornered, frantically slid
away from the tines. Finally impaled,
still writhing, it was brought outside.
When asked what I wanted, I replied
I learned it was a Hogshead, an eater of mice.
Harmless.

IV. Coda

The story spread among the neighbors.
One smiling man approached me in mock jest,
“Are you the snake lady?” I responded
with my best imitation of a swivel-hipped exotic.
Waking that night, I saw my face reflected
in the eerie light of the mirror.
Purplish-dark shadows under my eyes,
wrinkled skin, marionette lines.
The Gorgon’s head.

Karen Klein is a poet, dancer, and visual artist. Recent publications include The Drunken Boat, ScoutCambridge, the Aurorean, the anthology, Biting the Sun and forthcoming in Cape Cod Poetry Review and Pudding Magazine.

Karen performs spoken word with Tabula Rasa and Tobenfeld Mixed Media sessions and dance with Prometheus Dance Elders Ensemble, Across the Ages Dance.

A member of New England Sculptors Association, Galatea Fine Arts, and Steeple Street Poets, she divides her time between Cambridge and Mashpee, MA.