The Serpent Box

in an abandoned filling station gathers a lawless congregation pray ‘til midnight gamble and fight ‘til dawn sinners with missing fingers feeling after God eaves crawling with paper wasps the steady din of cicadas serpents raised from a box squirming faith held aloft strychnine sloshed across new tongues a babel of ripping cloth there’s no real risk for them that believe praying hands clasped in atrophy slain in the spirit the ecstasy of near-death treading barefoot on a viper’s back a slithering crown upon the figurehead back at the preacher’s smokehouse rattlesnakes coiled in lard cans jaws coursing with venom for these he has a greater plan rattle the snakes with a pipe force the hand of his wife for the love of his mistress he’d stage this divine accident the poison slowly claims his wife’s flesh we’ve all handled some kind of snake be careful who you take one from the bite of man is worse you never know what someone is capable of