I am rinsing mango juice off my
thighs when I notice its slim
body shimmying before me,
slicing through the crisp,
chlorinated water with ease.
When the light hits just
right I catch a glimpse
of its reddish-brown pattern:
copperhead, cottonmouth,
small vessel of venom.
I watch as it bellies up
to the blue tiling along the sides
of the pool; wonder how long
we have kept each other
company in the water before
I noticed it, if it had
slithered through my hair,
if I had momentarily become
Medusa, myth of a woman
misunderstood,
serpent extending
from my head that is too
consumed by ensuring all
the plants get watered on
these five thousand square
feet of land and that the aged
bottle of Sangiovese I sip
from each night here alone goes
unnoticed as I play house, wipe
the granite countertops, fetch
the mail, check the locks on all
eighteen doorways before sleeping
in the son’s second bedroom
swathed in sheets of Egyptian
cotton. I listen in to the sounds
of the marsh several steps
behind me: fiddler crabs
scurrying across the pier, each
weighted by the clicking of their
dominant claw, slick fish jumping,
for a quick moment suspended
in air. Each splash surely the flick
of a snake’s tail pushing itself
through the swamp but instead
it is here, inches from the soft
skin of my neck and pretending,
too, that it belongs in this place.
