smooth stones lie under her skin
curving up the middle of her back
a serpentine shape, reptillian curve
closer to one shoulder blade than the other
a wicked sicle shape across her back
full of both harvesting and death
the metaphors of her spine send slithering shivers
clear into my own agate spindle
we are sepparated by hundreds of miles
away with family, I contemplate the supple
softnesses of her back’s skin, her spine’s cradle
the weary muscles where I long to give attention
it is a clear morning ambush, her snake
waiting for me in the grasses of memory
between those ripened blades, a softly
winding riverbed, lined with agate stones
I’ve forgotten how good of a poet you are; Maybe you just got better?