by Michelle Goff
I bite the head of a snake off—
I am five years old and char 
my taste buds, venom flooding
my mouth to the very brim of it;
it overflows. A poppy flower 
sprouts from my tonsils, blooms
between my clenched teeth.
My tongue scars over, white
constellations wrapped over 
pink. The snake wriggles in the 
garden—another lighter snake
blooms from the headless tube. 
There is no blood. The petals
of my poppy flower fall slowly,
weep from the stem like stars
falling from the sky.