The woman and the snake eater

For many years of my life I loved him,

brilliant man with soft finger tips

whose name meant happy in a foreign tongue.

We shared mutual friends, mutual dreams and

infrequently, mutual beds.

By chance, I would attach

him deeper and deeper to my heart's desires.

After all, he would make an excellent provider, diligent visionary,

beautiful confidant and on some nights

a good friend.

Our problem was

we accidentally fell in love with our good

sex.

The intimate touch of one another-

and before we knew it our relaxing

turned into kissing and our kissing

turned into cuddling and our cuddling

turned into sex… on the couch

with the blinds and windows open,

and on the stairwell

or in the front seat of the car

before and after church service.

And the attraction grew so strong

that for years we decided to grow our separate ways

branch out like moon lit rays, we tried our very best to stay away

and pretend we don’t love each other

in such a way-

But anyway, we could not

and our dysfunctional relationship of love making

and never love giving

turned some part of his heart cold,

burned some hollow places whole,

shot some things we believed bold.

and then one night

I was lying under his arm thinking

When did he grow this bitter black callus over his soul?

This worn, cynical scale over his love,

this I don’t care what I break

but I need to take, take, take- attitude.

So mean that he could dine on rattlesnakes for super

copperheads for a snack, I take that back

vipers for his brunch and eels, cobras and water moccasins for lunch.

how originally I thought we would eventually

find our way to be together.

I pit optimism against experience... as if his love was a game.

But I lost- I know I could not take his last name.

No sense in it, no need- it wouldn't be the same.

Cause everyone would know me best as the woman,

beautiful or smart- that married the man

(who couldn't decide whether he could love her)

that eats snakes... for dinner.