There are fish you don’t grill

Fetched from some river, here.

Steamed even with the flames from hell

It remains still.

In my mother’s hometown

There are snails you don’t pick, too,

You only eat them with your eyes.

A thing to be worshiped 

& not to be offered as sacrifice

To the god you call throat.

They say you do not whistle at night,

Else,

You find a serpent heeding your call.

My uncle says: boy, be generous.

He explains,

To make meal out of an edible snake,

You must first split it in seven parts

& make feast with others. Do not eat all by yourself.

Else,

It grows back into a breathing thing

In the crevice of your bowels.

My father says:

You don’t walk when the earth wears itself

With a dark robe

Because at night, weed sprouts

Into humans. Palpable hands & feet.

That’s why you find

Strange faces and reflections lurking.