The Snake, the Little Girl and the Prayer

I was nine years old. I called my poem “The Raggle Taggle Snake” and I am sure it was some kind of class assignment. But, mine was not only a poem, it was a visual piece as well. The poem curves and swerves as I describe my encounter with a snake, shaping its sinewy body with my words.


I am concerned with the snake’s aesthetics. It may be wiggly waggly, but it is also ugly. Surely snakes cannot be beautiful?

I end the poem with:

This is a snake I know from the Bible, which was in the Garden of Eden before Adam and Eve. I’m bowing my head mimicking what I’ve seen countless of times do those pious Christian Ethiopian women, who pray to God in great humility to deliver them from whatever evil is before them, with their kind heads bent in supplication.

My prayers, in that moment at least, were answered. The snake’s poison, which would have fallen over me, is replaced by the syrup of happiness. My bent head saved me from evil.

The Snake and the Little Girl

I was nine years old. I called my poem “The Raggle Taggle Snake” and I am sure it was some kind of class assignment. But, mine was not only a poem, it was a visual piece as well. The poem curves and swerves as I describe my encounter with a snake, shaping its sinewy body with my words.


I am concerned with the snake’s aesthetics. It may be wiggly waggly, but it is also ugly. Surely snakes cannot be beautiful?

I end the poem with:

This is a snake I know from the Bible, which was in the Garden of Eden before Adam and Eve. I’m bowing my head mimicking what I’ve seen countless of times do those pious Christian Ethiopian women, who pray to God in great humility to deliver them from whatever evil is before them, with their kind heads bent in supplication.

My prayers, in that moment at least, were answered. The snake’s poison, which would have fallen over me, is replaced by the syrup of happiness. My bent head saved me from evil.