You come home to a sky full of sepia,
the gold light diffuse across a solid layer of sky,
the air tangible, the light a cloak you might
wrap yourself in as you cross over.
Like the snake you once watched swallow
a baby rattler head first, the final inch
going off with abandon, fighting for its last song
from the slick confines of muscle wall,
waiting with jaw wide for something to die,
the fog is eclipsing the sun, a clear gradient
spreading from the bottom up, turning the orb
a darker orange and then the big snake closes
its mouth and the entire sky goes gray.
Like the Eskimo with their fifty-two words for snow
and the Japanese with their ability to capture cloud,
it took you a while to learn this language, that
some snakes are immune to the venom of others,
that even the sun can sometimes be swallowed.
Sleep; wake in the last cloister of darkness
and with your legs folded and your hands
at your heart, listen as the snake exhales the sky.
Love elephant and want to go steady?
Assistant Editor: Paige Vignola/Editor: Bryonie Wise
Image by Dan Taylor via Flickr