She’s not an oracle,
simply my therapist.
I bring my basket
brimming to her now—
can you believe it—
now only once
every two or three moons,
an offering of fears
laid at her feet.
She peels back the dark
cloth, takes in the writhing serpents,
notes their diminishment
in size and power.
Only garden snakes,
she smiles, her eyes
sparked and celestial.
All is well, she decrees,
and my right mind nods,
while my left hesitates,
remembers how
small creatures grow
and hunger— flames
seeking oxygen.
We are never truly
out of the woods.
Look, see the fossils
of our footprints.
Never Truly
Ann Weil writes at her home on the corner of Stratford and Avon in Ann Arbor, Michigan, and on a deck boat at Snipe’s Point Sandbar off Key West, Florida. She earned her doctorate at the University of Michigan and is a former special education teacher and professor. Her work has been nominated for Best of the Net and appears in Crab Creek Review, 3Elements Review, Whale Road Review, Shooter Literary Magazine, DMQ Review, Thimble Literary Magazine, and elsewhere. Her first chapbook, “Lifecycle of a Beautiful Woman”, will be published in 2023 by Yellow Arrow Publishing. Read more of Ann’s poetry at www.annweilpoetry.com.