you wake up every morning and waking
you smell water its plodding constant presence
measuring the creek The water has a baby
each second it is flowing It moves
the grass like fingers at the bottom of an arm
You study while reclining green
tendons and their flexing the weak
or practiced bending they do above the child
The snake at every morning comes
desperate creeping lowly Muscles warp
the surface of a temporary skin Underneath
the belly legs propel it forward
oarsmen pulling paddles made of melting wax
To be the stream you wonder must
be something special closest to the infant
bearing what may be Then slowly with
your fingers you take it by the hollow
patch absent of jawbone onion
wrapped in scales The snake contorts and
stiffens grapples for a foothold Its body
becomes letters scrawled in shingled light
The letters come together to form
a single sentence in heaven’s
extant language no sound for which exists
I beg you Tell me something secret the way
to make you happy words the color of a throne
room but my heart is a cracked jar
Each day I listen without hearing
while a cloudbank parts like curtains
This world this world
beyond this world The snake opens its mouth
Then quiet as your sleeping you band its legs
with rubber to suffocate the hip bones
four lean fields strewn with salt
Brandon Jordan Brown is a writer and artist in Portland, Oregon. www.brandonjordanbrown.com