In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:

13 Christine T he thorns tear my legs. I crawl under the bougainvillea whose flowers are a flight of crimson butterflies. I crawl into the shade. My eyes pick out brown, yellow, khaki, pools of color running into each other, a coil thickening, thicker than my arm, coils inward: snake. “Christine. Christine. Christine.” With the machete she comes running. “Snake. There’s a snake.” “It is a good snake. It has eaten a rat so it sleeps. We don’t kill this snake,” she says. ...

Share