A Small Green Garter

Feb 2 2011

I held a snake

once.

Weaving through my fingers, coiling up.

The God-given fear of leglessness

momentarily overcome.

That darting tongue, tasting my scent.

The long muscular body

writhing like a live wire

or instant death.

A small green garter

we called “gardener”;

young men, as yet unfamiliar

with fetish, and fashion

temptation, attraction,

the hooks and fasteners

of fussy lingerie.

I was surprised by his dryness,

the pleasant roughness, touching.

Even the sense of oneness

with another living creature,

however alien

and unknowable.

Snakes, spouting poison,

unhinged jaws

downing furry rabbits whole.

Slithering up the pants

of unsuspecting boys.

I dropped him just-like-that,

and he shimmied off, whip-fast

wanting no part of me.

The mythic beast

condemned to belly through the dirt

for his fatal deceit.

Whose only real weapon, it turns out

is concealment.

Is this reptilian thing

evil by nature?

Or a moral agent, like us

capable of sin;

transgressing at will

repenting unheard?