 The Serpent, by John Slaby (USA) 2024 Dear Writers, What a rich variety of responses to John Slaby’s The Serpent! Selecting those for this post was a challenge inside a challenge. Whether you find your response here or not, please know that each poem or story was read and greatly appreciated. Thanks from John and me to you—for taking this serpentine journey and sharing your reflections and images. Happy Writing! Sandi ** Toothache R & R It was fifteen straight months on the front in combat When my commander said, "You should probably get that toothache looked at." He ordered me back on a few days of forced vacation To visit a dentist and partake in some much-needed rest and recuperation Now I am lying here alone in a stained mattress hotel Four hours flight from where others fight in hell Far enough away that no one seems to fear The artillery rounds still pounding in my ears Or is that the pulsing of my scalpel cut, shrapnel gums Packed with Percocet gauze and wrapped in whiskey drenched tongue Neither of which numb the slithering pain under my skin Nor will they ever heal me into my old self again I begin to sandbag the craters in my head With all the things I thought I would have enjoyed instead Like sugar venom snacks and snake fang syringes Missed party pics and the fantasies of Facebook friends Not to mention, jellybean rosary beads and Jesus’ icon offerings Of candle lit cigarette scents serpentining through the slaughtering Displayed across a news report's backlit battlefield glow When a flashing strike of drone blast impacts my commander's bunker below I mute the report's description of body-halved violence But I can’t uncoil the hissing, crushing, hush of sizzling silence So, I am lying here alone, resting and recuperating well beyond the tank’s touch Wondering how a toothache could hurt all over this much Brendan Dawson Brendan Dawson is an American born writer based in Italy. He writes from his observations and experiences while living, working, and traveling abroad. Currently, he is compiling a collection of poetry and short stories from his time in the military and experiences as an expat. .. The Last Time I Let Myself In I used to knock. Used to wait until your voice curled around the corner, but today, I let myself in. The screen cast that glow. A tank exploded something. Target Destroyed. It looked like winning. Pepto-Bismol, a half-eaten burger, pills scattered like loose change, cigarettes, a blunt. Two phones-- one frozen on a face I didn’t recognize. You’d been drinking again. The wine was mine. The whiskey wasn’t. The Jesus candle. Unlit. You used to tell me you believed in second chances. The armless statue lies on her back, fallen, or maybe she was made that way. That x-ray on the wall-- a nail in place of a tooth. I knew that was a message, but I never knew who it was from or why you kept it on the wall. I didn’t clean the table. Didn’t take the roses, even the ones I brought. Didn’t close your computer or shut the bottle or fix the picture taped crooked on the wall. I just stood there, long enough to feel like I had said goodbye. Then I took the lighter. Lit the candle beneath Jesus’ face. Just one flame. But I left it burning. Just in case you wanted to come back to something warm. Andrew Mauzey Andrew Mauzey teaches writing and literature at Biola University in La Mirada, CA. His most recent poems can be read in Smoky Blue Literary and Arts Magazine, Broad River Review, and TAB: The Journal of Poetry and Poetics, among others. He lives in Southern California with his wife and four children. .. The Serpent Small but clear, the voice comes from an undisclosed location. Sibilant and seductive, it tries to test your motivation, but you must go to work. “Today is so very hot,” it sighs with whispering sympathy. “Hard to breathe with this Saharan dust and crushing Houston humidity.” Something brushes your foot. You must get to work. “Oh come back inside,” it beseeches, “where it’s dark and it’s cool. You can say you’re working from home. Don’t be a fool. It’s so hot.” Something wriggles nearby. You must do some work. Just for a moment, you think. I’ll sit and cool down. Then you frown at the mess and the game on the screen. What are you doing? “Would you like something to drink?” the tiny voice inquires. “Something refreshing. Something with ice. Maybe some whiskey? Or rum might be nice? It’s too hot for coffee.” Something slides by your hand. Will it help with work? “If you need some quick energy, I’ve got Oreos and candy. But if you need something more, or your teeth hurt, check the pill bottles for something handy. Aren’t you feeling better now that you’re cool?” Something glides around your neck. You think maybe you are, but you must do a little work. The candles burn down and flicker. You wake with a start. With eyes bleary and blinking, you stare at Jesus’ glowing heart, and you remember. You should be at work. Oh God, help me. You’ll work tomorrow. “But it’s so hot.” Katherine Saxby Katherine Saxby is a retired teacher of English and French, an optimistic but negligent gardener, and an adventurous vegetarian cook. She is always looking for ways to improve her harvest, her accent, her pie crust, and everything else (including her poetry). She lives in Alameda, California. .. To John Slaby Regarding The Serpent Yes, clutter is the gutter to which ebbing life will drain as muttered oaths conceal the truths we'd rather not explain and clinging to our pleasures sensed becomes the fleeting bliss of bringing back as if restored the broken and amiss. Some means of course are merely by deceit outrageous ruse that lead us to their flame as moths convinced that we can choose to cease our self-indulgent whim that seems to mock our fear, withdrawing wings of fervent dreams before they flare and sear. But some means do indeed prolong the time that might remain becoming opportunity to relish and sustain the selfless love as penance due by which the soul atones, confessing and releasing from self-righteous hands the stones to mark instead much humbler way of charismatic grace diverging from the road to Hell to give salvation chase. Portly Bard Prefers to craft with sole intent... of verse becoming complement... ...and by such homage being lent... ideally also compliment. Ekphrastic joy comes not from praise for words but from returning gaze far more aware of fortune art becomes to eyes that fathom heart. .. Our o boros Let me nibble my tail a bite here a chunky chew there Let me draw a circle of life forfeit my vice Let me eschew the fat say nay to horse and hooch Let me live serene as the gingko tree some 3000 years of harmony Donna-Lee Smith DLS writes from an off-grid cabin where she heeds Slaby's sage advice: avoid salt, fat, sugar and other snarly addictions. When she's older and crinklier (she's a mere 76), she'll set sail to Asia, sit under a Ginkgo Biloba, eat its silvery fruit. .. Antivenom Jumbled, heaped, abandoned mess. Every type of false comfort is spread across the Surface of my table calling to me, and I am Unable to decide which will best numb my Senses and satisfy this aching need in me. I yearn for inner peace, but food, booze, drugs, or Sugar rush only lasts for a brief interlude before The cravings return and demand I remain their slave. How long must I endure this torment? Every morning, I promise myself, today will be different! A new start, a new me, a better, cleaner life. No more subjugation by substances which are killing me. Save me! If there were someone I could trust to rescue me Whenever I feel weak and could stumble, yet again. Eventually, in the corner, I see Him behind the candle. Reconciliation, rescue, forgiveness—life. Stephen Poole Stephen Poole is a retired police officer who served for 31 years in the Metropolitan Police in London, England. His poems have appeared in The Ekphrastic Review, Poetry on the Lake, LPP Magazine and in ten book anthologies. He has read his poetry to live audiences at various venues, including The Poetry Cafe in Covent Garden, Maidstone Fringe Festival, and Maidstone Radio. .. Chelsie As I sit in a mess of clutter and chaos, I try to get my fingers to type, but my mind is blank. My friends say it’s writer’s block, but I don’t think it is. I know it’s this place. I can’t concentrate. There are too many reminders of her. The silk red roses she placed on my desk to remind me she’d always be proud of me, and the bottle of red wine we shared on our one-year anniversary sits empty collecting dust. And I still have her prescription medication bottles. It makes me feel as if she’s still here. All these items distract me from getting my manuscript done. It's past midnight and the candle I lit glows with a slight flicker. I close my eyes and picture Chelsie’s face. The image of her long black hair and big smile brings tears to my eyes, knowing I’ll never see her again. But I stay like this for a little while longer. When I open my eyes, the room is quiet, and the candle has gone out. Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher has been writing since 2010 and has had many micro-flash fiction stories published. In 2018 her book Shorts for the Short Story Enthusiasts, was published, The Importance of Being Short, in 2019 and In A Flash in 2022. She currently resides on Long Island, New York with her husband Richard and dogs Lucy and Breanna. .. Dear Danny, I can only thank you for not looking after my home and not watering the plants, starving and mistreating the cats, and leaving an almighty shitshow in my kitchen and my bed and living rooms. I wouldn’t be surprised if the roaches had made their nasty little nests under the fridge, the mice were having a field day in the pantry, And my favourites, the maggots, are probably eating their fattening ways through whatever meaty stuff you left on the kitchen counter. Because of your kindness, your caring and thoughtful dereliction of even minor duties, I’ll send a photo of the results to all our friends—what are social media for? I suspect that your couch surfing and home sitting days will soon be over. I also suggest you send any new date to me first for an orientation session. Rose Mary Boehm Rose Mary Boehm is a German-born British national living and writing in Lima, Peru, and author of two novels as well as eight poetry collections. Her poetry has been published (and rejected) widely in mostly US poetry reviews (online and print). She was several times nominated for a Pushcart and Best of Net. Her eighth book, LIFE STUFF, has been published by Kelsay Books (November 2023). A new chapbook is about to meet readers. https://www.rose-mary-boehm-poet.com/ .. Serpentance 8:51 and Venus smiles, Eyeing a burger, both complete; Tablets are tidy in their vials; French fries are standing, warm and neat. Surely there must have been a moment Just before things went sour or broke: When we were certain still what home meant, Pre-booze and pills, pre-waste and smoke. Orders for drugs are all unwritten. Roses are coming into bud; Serpent’s unblighted, fruit unbitten. Christ has not shed his dear heart’s blood. Julia Griffin Julia Griffin has published in several online poetry magazines, including The Ekphrastic Review. .. Order Ah, serpent you weave your judgment and creative slime to expose the distractions of my life. What I drink, eat and surrender to each and every day. My meaningless addictions and avoidances. You have the gift of discovery, but not discernment. You trivialize what I cannot control. The mess of my chaotic life. The feast of conformity. Of human imperfections. Of a life without order or prayer. Of the last Supper without Christ. Sandy Rochelle Sandy Rochelle appeared on Broadway with the Acting Company of Lincoln Center. She produced and narrated the documentary film, ARTWATCH, about renowned Art Historian James Beck. Publications include, Dissident Voice, Amethyst Review, One Art, Haiku Universe, Connecticut River Review, Verse Virtual, Poetry Super Highway, and others. .. The Morning After I’m flat out, topless, severed by last night’s excesses. He’s silent, eyes averted, palms raised. My martyr. It’s always the same. The binge begins like this: The phone summons me with a buzz, and I pick up the damned thing, and there’s Mary posting again. She’s practically glowing, praising her Great Son. I turn to him and say, “Hey, if you’re so almighty, how about you get me something to eat?” His eyes drift skyward, as if seeking celestial rescue, but then presto! There’s soda, a burger, a cardboard cornucopia with fries aplenty spilling forth. I offer, “Thanks,” through a mouthful of mediocre meat. The next bite of burger is still blah, but I guess I didn’t say I wanted something good to eat. When you have a magic boyfriend or whatever you have to be specific. So, I’m wolfing down the fries, which are truly addictive, and swilling soda when I say, “Wouldn’t this be better if it had a little zing?” He looks pained, as if we’ve done all this before, and of course we have. Yet suddenly I’m awash in options, and it’s a splash of this and a puff of that, and I wonder what happens if I pop one of these? Whoops, knocked over a glass. Oh well. Too relaxed. I’ll get it later. Now it’s morning and I feel like hell. Ashtray mouth and sludge in my guts, and I swear to God I’ll never do it again. And he says, ever so gently, “Please. Don’t take His name in—” “Jeez,” I say, “I’m so sorry.” Because we both know that tonight, I’ll be taken by temptation again. In the meantime, I’m just going to lie down here, gazing up toward Heaven. Tracy Royce Tracy Royce is a writer and poet whose words appear in Bending Genres, Does It Have Pockets?, MacQueen’s Quinterly, Villain Era, and elsewhere. She lives in Southern California where she enjoys hiking, playing board games, and obsessing over Richard Widmark movies. Find her on Bluesky. .. Out of the Depths It’s like I have a damned altar filled with relics of my cravings and remedies to fix their poison. Even one vase of the roses is almost dead. Sacred Heart of Jesus save me. I have the Pepcid to take before my daily burger and fries. Jumbo soda doesn’t taste right if it’s diet. The Oreos and Paydays are a weakness, too, as you can tell from the X-ray of my teeth which the dentist gave me to keep. See where the tooth was pulled? There’s going to be an implant there. Oh, and there’s all those syringes for the insulin I have to take. But what’s life without sugar? Gotta have salt, too. Jesus said “You are the salt of the earth,” after all. Maybe I’m taking that too literally. At least I monitor my blood pressure and take my Lisinopril and Hydrochlorothiazide most of the time. I think the Bible also says “The Lord helps those who help themselves” or maybe I imagined that. I think I helped myself a little too much. It reminds me of the lyrics of a Rufus Wainwright song: “If I should buy jellybeans/ Have to eat them all in just one sitting/ Everything it seems I like's a little bit sweeter/ A little bit fatter, a little bit harmful for me.” The song is called “Cigarettes and Chocolate Milk.” Yeah, I have the cigarettes too. Too late to quit now even if I could. Maybe I should get out of this house more, or at least open the blinds. But I have my Facebook to keep up with friends and the news. And my video games make the hours pass. Well, hours and hours to be exact. They help me escape from my crappy body and all its woes. So does the Bacardi which I serve in a fancy glass. Nothing else is fancy around here. Smoking my joints makes everything seem a little happier too. Most of the time I feel like that little statue I broke after a few too many Bacardis. Lopped in half. I can’t get rid of her though. It’s the only art I have. Maybe I’ll glue her back together one of these days. Lady cradles a skull All is so dark here Except candles and heart aflame Bill Richard Bill Richard is a docent at the Phoenix Art Museum. He also works at three medical schools as a standardized patient, helping future health professionals develop their communication skills. .. Praise Be to What I Cannot Foresee Here is to life, to its chaos of the quotidian, none knows better than a candle. Quiet and observant, in a glass tower, hard to miss. The one who holds herself together in her meltdown, whether in love or in gloom. Let salt be salt, let a cocktail of Bacardi be one man’s poison, another’s medicine. Let you be you, myself be me. Let praise be for the roses, elegant even in wilting, guards of beauty and carters of love. The candle is watching the daily misery of my country, diverse and distinctive. Praise be to a song of joy I have yet to write for all my people— citizens or not, aliens or visitors. Tell me as I pen this, how to speak to mercy for the masses? When will this darkness pass? Varsha Saraiya-Shah Varsha Saraiya-Shah authored VOICES, a poetry chapbook by Finishing Line Press. Her latest poem was featured on Academy of American Poets’ website Poem-a-Day Project: https://poets.org/poem/anthem-america. Also, published in Ambidextrous Bloodhound, Borderlands, BorderSenses, Cha, Convergence, Dos Gatos, Echoes of the Cordillera, Ekphrastic Review, Mutabilis, Orchard Street Press, Penguin Random House India, Pippa Rann-UK, Synkroniciti and elsewhere. Her work has appeared on international panels, Austin’s Jazz-Poetry performance, Public Radio, and a multi-language/century dance program: “Poetry in Motion” at Miller Outdoor Theatre by Silambam, Houston. .. Where Everything is Bigger Months before the first showing, I scrubbed gesso, off-white, onto the surface. No one cares that a burnt-sienna, monochromatic, scene spread over pencil scratches, that leaked out of my mind and through my hands. Few concern themselves whether a brush starts in one corner and writhes, colour after colour, slabbed from a full palette or waxed paper. Few concern themselves to know if expensive sable tips choose an item at a time and work it to exhaustion. Only one or two cunningly quiz: acrylic or oil? I, alone, see what is lacking, what didn’t muster, what didn’t translate, what couldn’t be captured on canvas. Todd Sukany Todd Sukany, a two-time Pushcart nominee, lives in Pleasant Hope, Missouri, with his wife of over forty years. His work has appeared in Cantos: A Literary and Arts Journal, Cave Region Review, The Christian Century, Intégrité: A Faith and Learning Journal, eMerge Magazine, and The Ekphrastic Review. Sukany authored Frisco Trail and Tales as well as co-authored four books of poetry under the title, Book of Mirrors, with Raymond Kirk. A native of Michigan, Sukany stays busy running, playing music, loving three children, their spouses, seven grandchildren, caring for a rescued dog, and four rescued cats. .. Shrine Another single Saturday night spread before Steve like a serpent. Maybe splayed is a better word. The half-sipped soda, the sugar, the salt shaker, the Savior candle, the TV and cell phone screens snickering at him. Pills spilled out on the table, syringes, ashing cigarettes resting in the tray. All slinky silhouettes, shadows of a week’s sacrifice. A few bits of the burger, some fries, but he hadn’t yet touched the Twinkie. Steve sandwiched himself between the overstuffed pillows of his sofa and sighed. He stared at the two vases of roses. Rosemary. This whole slithering display was an offering to her. One part of him wanted to swipe the slate clean. Another part insisted he didn’t need anyone. The single life was sufficient, suited him like a slick surface. He stood, shuffled into the space his super called a kitchen, and popped a pod into the Keurig. He snatched a Hefty, returned to the living room, and cleared the week’s debris into the bag except for his phone, the roses, and his Savior candle. He lit Jesus, mumbled a prayer. He punched Rosemary’s digits into his phone. Yes, he said. He was ready for yes. Barbara Krasner Barbara Krasner is the author of three poetry chapbooks, including the ekphrastic Poems of the Winter Palace (Bottlecap Press, 2025), and a forthcoming ekphrastic collection, The Night Watch (Kelsay Books). She's been honored to have her ekphrastic poetry and prose appear in The Ekphrastic Review, Mackinaw: A Prose Poetry Journal, Unbroken, Blaze/VOX, and elsewhere. Visit her website at www.barbarakrasner.com. .. Acrostical Tankas That treacherous tail-- hamburger bites down the hatch-- enough pills scatter. Skin french-fried in temptation-- echoes of dying roses-- reignite the heart-- past X-rays & syringes-- evil vies to live-- night candle casts a hope flame-- to spark your vibrant song. John Milkereit John Milkereit lives in Houston, Texas working as a mechanical engineer. He has completed a M.F.A. in Creative Writing at the Rainier Writing Workshop. His poems have appeared in various literary journals such as San Pedro River Review, Panoply, The Comstock Review, and previous issues of The Ekphrastic Review. His fifth collection of poems is forthcoming from Kelsay Books. .. How To Bring Up Your Table of Existential Dread for John Slaby Be direct. Instead of dropping quotes from Kierkegaard’s Fear and Trembling, say something like, “Have you ever chased M&M'S® with Viagra®?” This makes it easier to respond with a definitive answer. Keep it simple. Avoid tackling Nietzsche’s master-slave morality. Offer a casual prompt like, “What’s your favourite drone strike desktop background?” Make a connection. Build rapport. In a polite and friendly way lay the groundwork. “God is dead; I guess I’ll finish this Happy Meal®.” Be confident. Project self-assurance. A genuine smile and friendly demeanor soften the blow as you shout, “Put down your smartphone! Behold life's meaninglessness!” Handle rejection gracefully. Respect your friends’ decision if they decline to contemplate your memento mori. Try a polite response that shows maturity and avoids making them feel awkward like, “I understand, maybe some other time.” Lara Dolphin A descendant of immigrants, Lara Dolphin lives with her family among the Allegheny Mountains of Central Pennsylvania on the ancestral land of the Susquehannock/Iroquois people. She has written three chapbooks In Search Of The Wondrous Whole, Chronicle Of Lost Moments, and At Last a Valley. She, like countless others, hopes for a world filled with greater peace. .. Covenant Serpent hides & seeks Unforbidden items doze God blesses the peace Ekaterina Dukas Ekaterina Dukas, MA in Philology and Philosophy, has studied and taught languages and culture at the Universities of Sofia, Delhi, and London, and authored a book on mediaeval art for The British Library. She writes poetry as a pilgrimage to the meaning. her collection Ekphrasticon is published by Europe Edizioni. .. “Love, Save Us!”: Devotions in Smoke and Oil Two centuries ago, cheap prints of the Sacred Heart seeped into the wallpapered walls of Irish Catholic kitchens—my forebears’ kitchen among them—pinned high above everything, above the turf fires, visible the moment one stepped through the door, wavering like a ghost in the blue-glass shimmer of kerosene lamps that burned without ceasing. Prayers mumbled, rising like smoke to heaven—pleas for healing, for mercy, that the landlords be taken unto death. God forgive us. Just for today, I surrender to Love as I’ve come to know Love. I tithe to dark-haired deities who anoint my body with coconut oil, kneading fear from my muscles, pummeling grief from my thighs, spinning me in dances until I lose my head. My generation drowned in a red tide called AIDS. The tide offered no cure, no compassion, no everlasting life—only memories. I live in dread of prostate cancer, or of a heart that might betray me mid-dance. Beyond the blackout curtains, elected tyrants stoke forest fires and famines, drop bombs by drone, and delight in neighbour hating neighbour. Do You see the roses, fresh-cut and trembling, veiled in baby’s breath, that we lay before your altar? Do You smell the beeswax tapers that burn in our stead while we tend the fields? Shall I go on practicing You in my small acts of kindness? Shall I carry You, in the tabernacle of my heart, to those who still suffer? Stephen (“StevieB”) McDonnell Stephen McDonnell has spent his life in mystical—and later, erotic—adventures, wandering the wilds of the soul and serving as a wounded healer: part priest, part activist, part therapist, part trickster. In his sixties, he began shaping the prose of that journey into lyric poetry. He’s been learning the craft from Rumi and Whitman, O’Hara and Ginsberg—and the great, mysterious in-between. He lives in an anchor-hold with windows in every room, watching the wide-open sky above the farmlands of eastern Long Island, New York. .. Owed to The Serpent by John Slaby There are many things here started but unfinished, some seem to be finished but left out to clutter. I am trying to forget the two images of the superb model ‘Cat’ I believe flanked this work when it was first displayed. There is only an image of her on a cell phone still on. Another thing started but not finished? Finished but left burning? On the left are rosebuds ready to bloom, on the right the same roses seem to have wilted. The baby’s breath with the roses reminds me of the renaissance artists who displayed the conception of Jesus in Mary as light passing through clear water in a clear vessel. If I had been Mary, I would have wished for something a bit more dramatic in getting it on with God. Wouldn’t you? But the flowers in those paintings were generally lilies. How many days passed between the budding and the wilting in this work? Is it important? After all, Jesus is there in a Mexican Votive, his heart alight. Lots of little flames gutter here. I feel I owe the artist more than this stream of consciousness, but I do not know what. The spilled French fries are a large order from McDonalds. One would suppose the very fake looking burger is also, bitten more than once but not eaten. Lots of drugs, looks like Viagra and insulin, and together with the compacted tooth in the dental X-rays they speak of aging, also of an artist who does not deny it. Lots of alcohol, but unfinished or unopened very close to a broken Venus, the base standing naked from the waist down, the top lying naked from the waist up. Any need to explain? Glass, lots of glass. Restaurant glass containers of sugar and salt, as if at home the artist could not get enough. That’s about it, really, other than a perfectionist who must show wrinkled ill plastered tape perfectly. Pep-to-bis-mal. Dismal. And why is there fishing line? Oops! Almost forgot the central image on the computer screen. Could be a hydrogen bomb, could be the big bang, or just the birth of a great idea. We will never know because its unclear. We cannot get quite close enough due to the minutia of petty pleasures and waste that, for me at least, are the coils of the serpent. Robert Taylor Chapter one, Robert Taylor is born in Selma Alabama. He was shy and not very smart, yet somehow he was thrown in with people who were supposed to be smart three times at John Tyler Morgan Academy class of 1973, Selma, Alabama; then The Mallet Assembly Men’s honour’s dorm, University of Alabama graduated 1977; and the US Navy Aviation Officer’s Candidate School Commissioned Officer 1981. He spent 40 years in corporate sales. When he retired, he pursued his two best loves: art and writing. His wife met John Slaby first at the Houston Piano Club. Taylor met him in a life drawing class. .. SERPENTINE: The Serpent Communicates in Riddles "That there is not a wise Purpose in every thing that is made because we do not understand it, is as absurd for a Man to say 'There is no such thing as Light' because he is blind, and has no sight to see it." --An Essay Toward A Natural History of Serpents, written by Charles Owen in 1742 Evie wore her new red snakeskin sandals into the kitchen and contemplated colors: the green of the serpentine counter, shades of the earth like the flowing grasses in the Garden, the rugged tree where she'd gathered apples like ripening lovers... But at the moment, it was too early for temptation -- her grandmother's apple cake with autumn's apples, created in a house so tiny it could have been a blueprint on a 30 X 60 canvas where ruby-red tomatoes had fallen; falling, splitting open and scattering seeds to make a garden design on her wedding dress. Evie's friend, Eden, had offered to cater the reception with bites and salad (Serpent Salad, made with everything wild + from the garden) & Evie might have trusted her to do it but Eden argued about what's appropriate because she didn't like figs. The wedding dress, a frothy fabric toga -- antique Italian for a Roman holiday -- was both au courant and surreal; water spots on the crinkled silk, rainbow rings with seedling centres like the promise of an unexpected blossoming on what to wear in her recent relationship, for the love of Man about to be a ritual event her hair coiled, serpent-like, around the mirrored eyes of a tiara handmade with freshly harvested strands of ivy & replete with reflections on life that made her so happy everyone envied her: so like a serpent's kiss had been her friends and lovers! Wound around branches thick with ideas (how to write ekphrastic poems) the serpent-bodied tongues of memory had become a menu of literary questions: Kaa's hiss -- was it matched to a musical whisper breeze kissing leaves, nature's music ever more powerful than poison to Kipling? & The Garden's Growing Question What's For Dinner? Everything here is Serpentine; as, on an extraterrestrial plane a boy stands atop a planet where The Little Prince is asking why a boa constrictor looks like a hat to adults as it tries to digest an elephant. As a bride, does Evie remember A Happy Childhood? The potential power of love when a poet calls his girlfriend my little mongoose? & red, read, red why has the Scarlet King Snake become Evie's red wedding shoes as art is resurrected in a still life with objets d'art painted in the kitchen though the garden is animated the past like a moving picture projected on a changing background where a golden cat can hang on like the sun out of sight until the storm stops, one paw on a tree branch tail curled like a serpent near bird's eggs in a nest a scene where Evie (like Alice in her Wonderland) is evanescent; & where Christ, with his usual eternal illumination is ever-present, blood- fire burning in a candle -- how art blesses burgers, Coke & cardboard coffee cups -- a glass of wine and thou -- a world of junk and meds transformed by lyrics, serpent-scales & apple boughs. Laurie Newendorp Laurie Newendorp, who lives and writes in Houston, dislikes writing bios, but is deeply thankful she's been honoured by publication in The Ekphrastic Review's challenges; Serpentine is an homage to Kipling, Antoine de Saint-Exupery and William Matthews.
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