Old, Old
The snake died, a bag
of skin over old bones
on the morning we were
going away.
I disengaged the
heating mat, staggered with the glass tank
to the chill damp of
the morning air,
lifting out the snake,
her eyes open, glazed.
She was fine last
night...
Still stiff, Mobius
curves around her rocks and wood,
sand and sawdust still
hot from the mat
as I scan for something
to wrap her in.
A linen tablecloth,
old, ragged, paint-spattered
becomes her shroud and
I inter her
into the warm musk of
the compost bin.
Three months, six,
she'll be bones
waiting to uncover and
thread on spools of silk;
ready to carry dreams
to the realm of Spirit.
Sand and sawdust
steeped in the memories of bones.
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