The Snake
Eva Molina

written at the LA River

The grasses are combing the river.
I sit on the concrete slope from which nothing grows,
we’ve been dropped off near 
the underside of trucks eternally
            slicing space.
We have all said our years in school
some hinted at secrets
some said almost nothing.
During lunch, I berated the present tense, 
mocking its defiance of time.

The poet wears all black 
she said she was punk,
the cover of her book is her at seventeen 
walking another concrete river.
I’m a native angelino,
an original angel I translate.

We are meant to be walking into the poem,

but the river slides so quickly
sometimes it’s better to stay still.
Even the dead leaves can’t rest–
they know life and death are not separate
joined by that and as if they’re not the tail, the head.

A very different poet said 
we wouldn’t have learned language as early as we did
were it not for the snake:
sound on its quick thin tongue,
the river is writhing. 


referenced poets: 1) Laura Vena 2) Yusef Komunyakaa