The Serpent of God

On the coffee coast
women are bent like croquet hoops.
They're swampy under shawls;
brows set with squalls of sweat
and then some padre comes galumphing in
sandals crunching on ashy soil.
When his cross swings it flashes
like a medal, like the toe of a pistol
poking from a low-slung holster.

See him turn his open palms
skyward and slap the tan
cover of his fat book
as if it were a drumskin.
See three days of beard
ripple and duck as he unsheathes
the snake, pays it out like rope.
See - it does not bite.
It will not nip the cloth.

No one watches.
No one listens.
He stands like a stolen photo,
while women run their fingers
through soil so dry
they wonder at worms they find
still wriggling.