Some say the serpent first appeared with buttocks, hips, thighs —
            later forfeiting its haunches when caught,
            Satan-possessed, in the God standoff. 
If I were one of a dozen squirmy reptiles expelled like bowel-fanging
tapeworms through a maternal opening, would I resent this
            dragging my underside through the dust, this victim’s punish-
            ment applied to my hijacking into the devil’s vesselship?
No.  Creation would have me granted rows of scales like fingernails to
unshock my gravel-creeping endeavor, would have me endowed
            with the clean start of skin sloughing, undressed down to fresh
            keratin, peeled sock cascading around jutting barked limbs.
I would belly crawl contentedly.  I would slither and crawl as my lot,
            because slithering — not questioning why I slither —
            would be the highest purpose of my existence. 

Catherine Zickgraf

If you have any comments on this poem, Catherine Zickgraf would be pleased to hear them.

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