Like it came from under bedrock. Wriggled
through that and got past, was from ‘past’ from Pangea—
it could have been Triassic, could’ve been Permian. Or
what else?
Its scales were red, black, white, but
mostly red, from where the bike tire
had affixed it to the cement like an artist
could do with a leaf and a screw press.
And there were so many chipped scales and missing
stripes of flesh, that I would believe it
if you said: “this snake had wings,
Once.” Drake wings, wings of pressed papier-mâché, caked in crimson
pomegranate ink,
with ligaments slipping atom for atom into
its wounds. And that it could sip and spit fire, for I figured there was
‘fire’ in its eyes. Or something less
finite, less doomed to grow stereo-
typic in our Cenozoic era. No, its eye-globes were backed in a warm blood
light that was older. That was Triassic—
could’ve been Permian.
It did not occur to him, that he could die.
That he would die, here, stapled carelessly to this sidewalk,
like a scrap of slightly memorable trash.
The living half had coiled into a contemplative looping.
‘Look at the mess we’ve landed ourselves in. What now, old chum?’
“Don’t ask me,” I answered, cross-legged, stroking him carefully
with a stick. I did not know if he would bite.
A crow, still wet beaked, bleak, watched us from a fence rail.
They waited in a sullen black cloak for realization to take hold.
The snake’s dead half splayed outwards
a limping, gimped strand of the finest
Liquorice. His tongue was:
Lifeblood with a skin. Ruby rod split into two prongs, tines, kitchen knives.
“Why forked?” I asked, cross-legged, stroking him carefully
to avoid agitating his wounds. The snake answered:
‘By slipping those twin tips into the Jacobson's organ on the roof of my mouth,
I measure their relative scent potency and discern which direction—left
or right—my prey is headed.’ The crow high-stepped, one leg, then the other,
vanishing under its cloak. Its Styx, it’s Lethe. I nodded, bare finger stroking the
crest of his skull, which lay flaccid against the coiling now.
That snake knew he was going to live forever, but half an hour later
I was going to send a search party under my fingernails with soap and scalding water.
I was going to wriggle in. Dig deep. Stroke my bedrock gently. Carefully—
Careful. Don’t slip under yet. Who knows what’s under that second crust of yours?