Snake Angel

                              for Borislav

Having arrived while we slept,
head in the nave, the guest
stretches under the flap

of the cat's door—whole body
following:
              Paradise opens

to the cool Mexican tiles
of the sunken living room floor.
He knows he's earned the right—

slinking across with a small grin
the farm's whiffy compost.
He ignores the eggs beneath

the tree with the peacock in it
crying for its mate. Idiotic for me
to hold this broom above his snout

one more minute. He has bypassed the bowl
of chow in the carport, the frog hanging off
its side, and a red swarm building in the rim

of an old tire. Like all of us once fallen,
he might remember an inscription, a seal
made by some father-light, flashed on,

down under this thin-skinned disguise.

Copyright © 2005 Jeannine Savard All rights reserved
from My Hand Upon Your Name
Red Hen Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission