By: Emily Ellison

What is the value of temerity
if in slugging along, I am still

a lugubrious snake in the state
of cardiovascular plunder? This gut

holds but the jitters of mice
tucked inside themselves, a false

scale of scary valor found in the twisting
spine-whip shape of baseness.

How can I perfect my forked craft
of the reptilian ground when my scepter-

skin, red with blood-anticipation,
hides the fur of frenetic

lowlife underneath slick composition?