I knew you were not poisonous
when I saw you in the side garden;
even your name—milk snake—
sounds harmless, and yet your pattern
of copper splotches outlined in black
frightened me, and the way you were
curled in loops; and it offended me
that you were so close to the house
and clearly living underneath it
if not inside, in the cellar, where I
have found your torn shed skins.
You must have been frightened too
when I caught you in the webbing
of the lacrosse stick and flung you
into the woods, where you landed
dangling from a vine-covered branch,
shamelessly twisted. Now I
am the one who is ashamed, unable
to untangle my feelings,
braided into my DNA or buried
deep in the part of my brain
that is most like yours.
![](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgW4rBgTl71PwbjFmdzCxKGNuUxdpQ4qBqPUu2bg6JAxvLgrG-_sgbbI3qsVBZQN8Ci4dPckvFBC4Pb1ZUsJcBgxBTT_OYsOo-ij-sgUgud6UT5OrvNZj99gQ7RSXb3JquoZpwcXE1jUFE/s200/image.jpg)
Art credit: Photograph of a milk snake by George Grall/NGS.
Vivid!
ReplyDeletefantastic!!
ReplyDelete