later on

We are cruelest to the little thing:
bugs, flower stems, the last sip, toenails, middle kisses.

I cleaned a set of outdoor furniture today,
took some carnal meridian interest in scrubbing
moss off a tangle of netted chairs.
I zoom a gaze, magnified eye:
the soap devours each green.
pop pop
pop

Which cell reigns spectacular?
Which orb wins?
I forgot to declare a superior
before the bucket of that clear
water soaked the below
with streaks of green former,
some kind of answer: nature vs manufacture.
Fire ants caught in toxic bubble wake,
breathed it in, never again saw their queen.

A 200-ft snake pulls through my hands,
and I’m thrilled at my strength—
my control of it.
Holding a venomous thing doesn’t give it the power
to enter you.
I will not be surprised again.
I pull until it has wrapped around the legs
of a patio chair, the grain grinding noise
of the four-legged pull along the grey.

I don’t think to unwind the snake’s curdled body—
instead, pull harder. The tube of its body entirely
in my grasp—
not even when the bugs crawl up my neck
bite my shoulder-blade, inspect my eyebrows.
Which is to say, pick which evil to look into,
the body can only handle just
enough.

Grace Moore is a writer based in Chicago. She is a recent graduate of the University of Iowa creative writing program, where she was a candidate for, and awarded, an honors thesis in 2019. She also worked as a poetry instructor for a non-profit called The Iowa Youth Writing Project. Grace's work has appeared or is forthcoming in The Circuit Rider, Endeavors Magazine, KRUI, Zeniada,The Black Sheep, The St. Louis Post-Dispatch, and more. Find her on twitter and instagram: @spaceracegrace.