Happy 100 Days: 58

This must be what the snake feels
when her skin starts to peel
back from what has been
tucked away
 
asleep.
Which of those coiled
selves will push
aside the rest, confine
them to another dormancy
while it becomes
the whole of what the living
thing knows
of stone and meat and predator
and mate
(and, of course, all of what they know
of her)?
 
Only one
will feel the next rake
of earth
against fresh belly.
 
Such a crap shoot.
She has so little say.
The manner, perhaps,
and place,
but not the timing
and certainly
not the fact
 
are hers to choose.
No wonder she goes
so still
when the husk
makes its intention known.
 
Who in her will suffer
the singular pleasure
of being
born?