Three days pass, when morning brings
a different kind of oracle - a python
by the roadside, near my garden,
where she no doubt lived.
What am I called upon to do?
Applaud a predator's demise?
(Her belly is distended, true,
with bulge of possum, cat or rat.)
Celebrate creation's miracle,
still awesome in repose?
Compose an ode, perhaps a sonnet
on the python and the rose?
Notify her shadowy custodians,
whose home this was,
to come for her, stage rituals
to lay their totem-beast to rest ?
She's lying, gravid with the sun,
bold ants assembled at her head,
a fugitive from oneiros and nameless
dread. My yard seems less mysterious,
now that its secret guest has fled…
Python
© Copyright: Jena Woodhouse, 2004
Свидетельство о публикации №104021500307
Свидетельство о публикации №104021500307
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