Day 4: Unraveled

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.

Day 3: Green shutters, brick exterior

We’re hard to find here.

Beyond the slow rotation

of wind chimes made of keys

and sticks

and multi-colored yarn,

the night erases all

that marks my place –

the tree out front,

the ditch, the neighbor’s drive,

the dullish numbers on the mailbox.

Everyone drives past.

Inside, against the blue-green wall,

the piano bows with books.

The yellow lamp illuminates his face.

From the tub, one child tells

the story of the berries

that will commandeer

the tiny boat she’ll make tomorrow.

No one cleaned the dinner plates

before they poured the wine.

I laugh.

The night stops outside my door.

Day 2: Road Trip Haikus

From D.C. to Illinois,

Aunt Marcia and I

Composed haikus in the back.

Later, in the mail,

Accordion booklets came

Tied with blue ribbons:

She remembered each poem

And printed them all.

“Giraffe” was my favorite.