Old Newspapers as Sleeping Snakes of the Past
The poem turns a pile of old newspapers into a nest of snakes to show how repressed pasts can rise and confront the present.
Beware of the old newspapers stacked on that little three legged stool over there.
Don’t disturb them. I know it for a fact that snakes have spawned in between these sheets.
Don’t even look in that direction. It’s not because of breeze that their corners are fluttering.
It’s alive, that nest of newspapers. New born snakes, coiling and uncoiling, are turning their heads to look at you.
That white corner has spread its hood. A forked tongue shoots out of its mouth.
Keep your eyes closed. Get rid of the whole goddamn pile if you want to in the morning.
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