year of the snake

that year the moon tore off its skin
midsummer
before the misbeliefs budded
before the gulf spat up
before anybody knew what was happening
and people come running from their porches
with whatever was already in their hands
a wrench
a feed bucket
a dead snake a child
nobody knew what it meant
but they knew what they were meant to do
so they ran like how cattle run
when lightning hits the fencepost
i watched mrs. herman drag a king-size sheet
toward her truck by the corners
white glowing through her wrists
cartoon electrocution
and she kept sayin don’t need help, me
don’t need help, me
the way somebody says it
when they mean the opposite
i saw a girl from school stood stark nekked down
in the ditch muddy feet moon-skin hanging
from her teeth
flagbound throat
looked at mine with eyes screaming wildcat
turned and shot through the cane
blazing copper trail the whole way home
and all through town the pieces moved
halfalive
gettin tangled in bobwire
slipping through fences
wrapping round ankles
like how fever wraps around a boy
when he tries to sleep at the wrong hour
and in blue jeans
i didn’t touch a thing
not because i was afraid
but i was afraid
and the streets emptied by sundown
except for the old men
sitting on camp chairs
talking low and serious
about the last time the moon molted
and how that year
everything that was meant to be born
came out wrong or bright and shining
and not even their mamas
could ever tell which
until it was too late