From the scaly serpent’s mouth,
a moment stops the ticking of a clock.
One number, one point five, now turned two.
A crowd gasps for air,
holds their stomachs or clasps their hearts,
clutches for the memory of hope.
A man reaches close and pulls a dove
from a girl’s abdomen,
a bird of peace and clipped wings.
The serpent means more,
and causes a ruckus in the brain,
pulls forward a ship piloted by greed.
An orchard of apricot trees bursts forth
with sweet fruit once dangling from branches,
rotting on the ground,
their sweetness abundant in a season of glory,
now fermenting, past.
Amid the drought, the flood,
the fire’s ravaging flames,
we are pulled from the mouth of the serpent,
crackling skin shed,
with disbelieving eyes.
As too late the young girl calls,
too late the precious bird flies.
Inspired by Jane Hirschfield’s “Fado”