Skins
My mother had a handbag made
from the skin of a female cobra
her brother killed in the garden.
No rrkk-tkking Kipling mongoose
to protect her, just my fierce uncle,
bantamweight in a stained banyan
brandishing cricket bat and torch.
Rain slid off the cambered hood,
the lady’s umbrella snapped shut—
red flickered in her blank black eye
as the straight drive landed true
the thick whip stopped mid-strike.
Her vast body, bulging coils in a bag
double-carried to the leathersmith,
who stretched it like a family fib,
stuffed venom glands with satin.
The tawny clutch appeared
on high-heeled evenings only,
slept in a nest of white tissue.
The bright pince-nez mark
watched from the laminated flap
traced by pink-fanged fingers,
each time the mouth opened
or shut with a satisfying click
the sound was a soft, hissing salute
from one bloodsport queen to another.
Natasha Gauthier is a Canadian poet and journalist living in Cardiff, where she runs Tiger Bay Poetry. She is a member of the 2024-25 Representing Wales programme. She has been published in Poetry Wales, Scintilla, Acropolis and Amphibian, among others, and won second prize in the 2024 Welshpool Open Poetry Competition.