Your limbless
body winging
down the side-
walk. Ess, ess,
ess. A stutter,
a slow leak, a
hiss. A thread
following an
invisible needle
stitching a quick
hem in the air.
Frantic to find
an escape under
the fence, you
bunch up against
the boards like
ribbon candy
or a flamenco
ruffle—com-
pressed esses
on esses. When
I was six, we
called your like
grass snakes,
nearly as common
as the blades
your kin zipped
between, green-
&-black lightning
parting the grass
as they passed.
The chase was
as thrilling as
the capture,
the ropy creature
slipping through
my fingers, one
hand to the next
as I attempted
to detain it—
slipping like
the chain of
a luxurious
necklace, silky
and supple.
Look!, I say,
pointing you
out to my dog,
wanting someone
with whom
to share my
wonderment.
The dog brings
her nose to
the pile you’ve
made of yourself
beside the fence,
just as you begin
to unfold, loop
after loop, and
glide beneath
a ragged plank.
The dog jumps
backward then,
surprised to find
that something
alive could flow
like water.
