by Lucinda Trew

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there have been more than usual this year
leafy lawn sightings and close encounters
retold on community chat boards, across
backyard fences – copperheads in the ‘hood
leaving fanged gangsta signs

some say they’ve come for the cicadas
aged like fine cheese or wine for 17 years
a vintage the viper appreciates – he is, after all
one who can wait

tucked beneath tree stumps, sheet metal
sheds, hiding in beds of sawdust, biding time
without tell-tale rattle or hiss, camouflaged
by hourglass bands, he lingers

stretching time along the endless twine
of his spine, coiled like a spinster’s braid
like Sisyphus pushing boulders, he pulls
tail to arrowhead and back again
and again, an interminable stall

and thrall, hooded eyes slouching
to dark and to dream, patiently
awaiting the heat of the prey

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Lucinda Trew lives, writes, and walks dogs in Weddington, North Carolina. Her poetry has been featured in Bloodroot Literary Magazine, The Poet, Cathexis Northwest, Mockingheart Review, storySouth, Eastern Iowa Review, and other journals and anthologies. She is a Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net nominee and recipient of Boulevard Magazine’s 2023 Poetry Contest for Emerging Poets.