Robin Coste Lewis


Last summer, two discrete young snakes left their skin

on my small porch, two mornings in a row. Being


postmodern now, I pretended as if I did not see

them, nor understand what I knew to be circling


inside me. Instead, every hour I told my son

to stop with his incessant back-chat. I peeled


a banana. And cursed God—His arrogance,

His gall—to still expect our devotion


after creating love. And mosquitoes. I showed

my son the papery dead skins so he could


know, too, what it feels like when something shows up

at your door—twice—telling you what you already know.


Robin Coste Lewis, “Summer” from Voyage of the Sable Venus. Copyright © 2015 by Robin Coste Lewis. Source: Voyage of the Sable Venus (Alfred A. Knopf, 2015)



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