I saw a snake bisected
by a garden hoe,
the edge too dull to cut,
so blow by blow the thing
unraveled
not like skin should do
or scales
but cords and sinews
one by one
recoiling
to pop loose.
Bloated on the garage shelf
it posed a risk.
The baby birds were gone
already.
And our dog was there …
Blow by blow its head
whipped back,
it tail tight formed
into a squeezing coil
to seize from us
our weapon
or to stop it,
pleading body-full --
what god does a snake
cry out to?
No one thought it Wrong,
that slaughter.
It was Right.
Protect your own.
I cried and cried.
The coil of its fear
wound tight
around my wrongness.
One year later
when we moved,
I scrubbed with bleach
but never got the bloodstain off the floor.
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