This intimacy is a foreign syndrome,
The power given in submission
That presses the chamber to thought.
He could never do more than hiss,
Though what is missed is not forgotten,
A fetus that grew into a hardened shell
From her insecurities in a fluid life.
There are directions independent
Of intentions that transcend a cycle,
And it is ourselves who are liable.
It is ourselves who scar our eyes
With viability in these trivialities.
The snake cradles the child
With its venom on reserve,
But turns away out of respect,
Its innocence still undisturbed.