I was warned from them, venomous

             and naturally the most beautiful,

 

creamy yellow tails darkening to copper

             and rust near the head. 

 

The ones to fear, not blacksnakes

             thick as braided cables, stretching

 

across highway lines or coiled on wooden steps

             to the beach, more likely to slither away         

 

into honeysuckle bushes lining the road

             or onto cool sand shaded by staircases.

 

Those could be anything we imagined,

             mouthpieces and cords of Bakelite phones, 

 

discs whirring through dialed numbers,

             leather belts folded, raised overhead,

 

swung through air laced with aftershave

             and commercials for no lye relaxer,

 

available in three shades:

             mahogany, sienna, and auburn. 

 

My parents dressing for dinner out,

             letting me watch Soul Train                                  

 

as they shaved and sprayed perfume,

             reached into closets for neckties and pearls,

 

the same belt that threatened to welt

             my thighs circling his waist.  

 

Sound of their car pulling away,

             warmth rushing my belly,

 

my red hair fanning their pillows. 

             Lace stockings, garter belts I slipped

 

from my mother’s dresser drawers,

             lying naked on the bed stroking

 

as the O’Jays sang Who am I,

             who am I.  Purple strobes brushing

 

the dance floor into ocean waves.   

             Spotlights dark as bruises I’d be given

 

if I were caught, the screen suddenly

             a two-way mirror.  Pleasure of being seen,

 

brought onto the dance floor writhing

             in parade, grasped behind the head,

 

mouth pried open, fangs extended, 

             milked hard.  Every boy on my street 

 

knew they were poisonous, copperheads  

             hiding in attics and on basement floors,

 

a nest of them hissing in the crawlspace

             under our house.