|
- to my husband
Sunday dusk, peaceful scene.
You carry a pail to fill
the birdbath near the pond.
I water flower beds until you call,
then drop the hose and run barefoot
to where you motion toward a bluebird house
bound by baling wire to a sycamore trunk.
There, bulbous black and shining,
that snake
looped like a gas pump hose
half in, half out
of the bluebird house.
You load the shotgun with red twelve-gauge shells.
That head sways, flame tongue flicking,
explodes. The long form goes limp.
That belly, a checkerboard black and white,
bulges like a stocking stuffed with tangerines.
The pitchfork's prongs hoist the heavy weight.
You heft the snake into the pond.
Just last week, I'd laid my ear to that same house,
heard stirrings.
Scars, where shot grazed the bark.
Ants shuttle down and up the trunk.
Peppered beneath the tree, blood mottles leaves.
Tonight, the pond churns where fish and turtles feed.
Snake, forgive us.
You part the grasses of our dream.
Where you pass, blades bow and whisper.
Black wisdom.
|
