The shimenawa, sacred rope, hangs
from the shrine gate, white snake
growing heads at both ends—
the priest cuts it in half,
two snakes twisting
into the night.
The bonfire sucks stars into its red
throat; as we eat smoked eel
and icy tangerines, drink whiskey,
watch two snakes
entwine in embrace.
We dare not say to each other,
we are so like them:
one wounds, the other heals,
one heals, the other wounds.
When the bonfire goes dim,
we walk home,
turn out the lights,
sit with our legs coiled
around each other,
peel down our clothes
as if we could slither
out of ourselves, skins glinting
half-wet in the dark,
as if we could braid
ourselves back into a single
sacred rope.
