Last summer, two discrete young snakes left their skin on my small porch, two mornings in a row. Being post-modern now, I pretended as if I did not see them, nor understand what I knew to be circling inside me. Instead, every hour I told my son to stop with his incessant back-chat. I peeled a banana. And cursed God-His arrogance, His gall-to still expect our devotion after creating love. And mosquitoes. I showed my son the papery dead skins so he could know, too, what it feels like when something shows up at your door-twice-telling you what you already know.
About This Poem
"I'm interested in Descartes' mind/body split, how our disembodied go-go-go lives are often interrupted by events, coincidences, individuals--signs--those moments that remind us, blatantly, of all those sensations we hope to repress. In short, then, I suppose this poem is about that brilliant trickster Denial's natural triumph over our refusal to concede our own self-perception."
-Robin Coste Lewis

About Robin Coste Lewis
Robin Coste Lewis is the author of "Voyage of the Sable Venus" (Knopf, 2015). She is a provost's fellow at the University of Southern California and lives in Los Angeles.

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(c) 2015 Robin Coste Lewis. Originally published by the Academy of American Poets, www.poets.org. Distributed by King Features Syndicate