Inheritance \ His Indulgence And The Song Of Birds

Nancy:  Do I like snakes?  Yes.  Did I like teaching children about snakes?  Yes.  Am I careful never to injure a snake?  Yes.  Nevertheless...

Inheritance

It was a snake.

Where?  How big?

What color?  It was

the color of...

well, it was a snake-y

color; it was as long

as the grass is wide;

it was there; it probably

is still there.

I am not phobic.  I have

carried our friend the snake

in two hands and shown

him to children.  Gently,

I caution; he is fragile;

his ribs are slender and many;

I carry a picture of the delicate

skeleton; I calmly remove his teeth

from my thumb.

Did you see me leap?

Hear the almost-stifled sound

of a person whose bare foot

has said snake?  At that moment

it was 1,000,000 years into

my future when I would say,

“feel the smooth flow of his scales;

watch him taste the air delicately

with his tongue; see how he enjoys

coiling around my warm body,” sliding

strong and muscular under my shirt.

Alan: The only Chat I’ve ever seen was dead from striking our window.  But twice on June nights I’ve awakened from sleep to listen, astonished.

His Indulgence And The Song Of Birds

That perfect summer night I heard the Chat

pouring from the copse

its extraordinary invisible flow

of music and noise,

I thought of Ryokan stumbling loaded

home from some farmer’s kitchen

pausing every few feet

to extemporize fortissimo

rice-wine poems

to the company of gods.