Snakeskin Journal (fragments)By Chris Yurkoski
“Singularly…no other object in nature – no birds or flowers or beautiful things – have been so universally adopted in personal ornaments as the serpent idea.”
“Some snakes do not end.”
My shadow bit
the path a snake scythed back into the long grass gravel, shrubs like a kind of thrilling question mark * The kindergarten shriek interest in some oilslickblack garter snake triptych gashes of gold, smells right back with tip of quick swordpick tongue, then slips slight past between dense blades of grass and we laughed * Though I caught and marked a thousand paths and always kept at least one forked eye out, I may have only witnessed x snakes in more than y years, which has equaled variable curiosity, but expressed little redemption or hope * Thatch of leaves hides the boardwalk heard rustles under must have been a snake or maybe something the snake was after * Sentience, like snakes, it seems turns cursive: ‘s’ to ‘u’ to ‘c’ , ‘n’ to ‘o’ etc. – such slick verse with no bones to splint a slip-and- morph philosophy; Instinct, like mammals, stiffs linear: primitive single stroke lettering – ‘l’ and ‘v’ and ‘x’ & so & on – blueprints and slashes and plans fail like ribs, easy to be tricked caught and then snapped * As a musical instrument a snake could throb like a bass so heavy, slow unwind its route around the song, slink slow, so slowly, counterrhythmic, obscenely, and bend just beneath the bar * The snake with its tail in its mouth looks a lot like forever the snake with itself pulled inside out looks like hell * So the snake was eating its tail, so the snake was eating its tail, so the snake was eating its tail, so the snake was eating its tail, so the snake * The snow fell. Where did the snakes go? Such a fresh, blank sheet. We can say anything we want. The water froze. I think I know where they are hiding. Sharp in the sun. Just relax and imagine. Then open your eyes. And they shall be writ all over the ice. * My shadow bit the path a snake scythed back into the long grass gravel, shrubs like a kind of thrilling question mark Chris Yurkoski is a writer living in Ottawa, Ontario, who also performs policy analysis on socio-economic issues for the federal government.
He has previously published a variety of prose and poetry. Most recently, his poems have appeared in Euphony, Hidden Peak, The Prairie Journal of Canadian Literature, Bones and Shot Glass Journal. He has also had work accepted for an upcoming edition of The Antigonish Review. |