The Big Death of a Small Brown Snake

Here you are, 

coiled rope-like, 
outwardly at peace,

yet disemboweled, 
disembodied,

sitting on top

of your own stomach,

an essential organ once held within,

now so obscenely thrust out through

a tear in your skin,

onto a graveled floor.

Yes, that is your belly,

though it looks

at first glance

like a fat bloodied worm

like red berry jelly

you swallowed this morning

and haven’t had time to digest,

not the tender, vital organ

that nourished you

through a lifetime of

twists and turns,

thrilling those who caught you

rustling through native species

and non-native too,

like a manic wind

that couldn’t be stopped.

Now, that organ lies still.

Life is seeping out and

you are here on your own.

Did you glide in grief

from the lofty grass

onto the walking path

so that I, too, could lament?

Some may find no meaning

in the loss of you,

but your day of death

is my day of birth and

this is the season of passing,

so I cannot ignore

the spectacle of you.

Now, too, a storm is rising up,

hail like bullets

shooting down.

Again, I have come

together with a dying snake,

a dead mother,

a reminder that

I love grief and the grossest

truths of living

only because I can feel them.

As I watch you die,

you are sorrow, ache and

the wonder that keeps me alive.

But as I, too, slither along

a twisted path that

ends with me alone,

we will soon become the memories
we were destined to be.