A new poem by Ruben Mita.

A Snake Called France

My sister had a snake called France
and a horse called Birthday
and a one-handed haircut.

France moved
like the midday shadows
of fish over seagrass.
When my sister took her out to taste the air,
she shone
like a letterbox jewelled with rain.

Once we rowed out on the lake
and my Uncle pulled out a fish,
a thrashing, maddened mirrorball.
My sister stroked its brow to calm it down,
while in its scales her face
broke into a thousand pieces.
France was the only one
who didn’t mind.

My sister had a hidden smile
and a snake called France
and she lived in two worlds.