I. In the Great Great Lake, Was a Snake
We were told
not to swim there.
Too deep, they said.
Too clear.
The kind of water
that shows you
what you brought with you.
But it was summer.
The land was dry
and too honest.
So we walked to the shore,
barefoot,
not as children—
not anymore—
but not yet ruined
by the things
we would choose.
The lake did not shimmer.
It had no opinion.
Only stillness,
like a body
not quite dead.
That’s where we saw it—
the snake.
Black
or dark green.
It moved without effort,
carving silence
into the water.
No one screamed.
We only watched.
The way you watch
your own thought
cross a line
you didn’t know was drawn.
Someone said:
It lives here.
As if that explained
everything.
As if that forgave us
for entering.
Later,
you said the snake
was a symbol.
Of what?
I asked.
You didn’t answer.
Only closed your eyes
as if to keep
the image
from escaping.
It never bit.
It didn’t need to.
You never swam again.
But I did.
I let it brush
against my leg.
I let it know
I was willing.
Some lessons
do not punish.
They wait.
II. The Fox Appeared at Dusk
It stood
at the edge of the lawn
where the grass turned
to bramble.
Not moving.
Not afraid.
I thought:
It came for me.
But of course
it didn’t.
Foxes don’t come.
They appear.
We watched each other.
That’s all.
No message.
No warning.
Only the knowledge
that we had both
survived something
we wouldn’t explain.
I said:
I know what it’s like
to live by hiding.
To make yourself beautiful
only when no one is watching.
It tilted its head.
Not with pity—
that’s a human disease.
Just alertness.
Recognition, maybe.
Then it turned
and left me
alone
with the neat grass,
the dusk,
and the question:
Why does the thing
that resembles you
most
always walk away?
III. The Moth Thought It Was a Flame
It circled
for hours.
Or maybe
minutes—
time gets slippery
when desire enters the body.
I left the lamp on.
Not for it.
But I didn’t turn it off, either.
It wasn’t beautiful.
Not in the way
we mean beauty—
bright, deliberate.
It was soft.
Frail.
Its wings
like dust in motion.
A thing made mostly
of longing.
I watched it
hit the bulb,
again and again.
A little gasp
each time.
You said:
It’s stupid.
But I couldn’t agree.
It knew exactly
what it wanted.
And it would die
getting close.
Who can say
that’s not a kind of
wisdom?
The room
smelled faintly
of heat and carbon.
The sound
was so small
I almost missed it—
that final tap.
Afterward,
the silence
seemed brighter.
I turned off the lamp.
Not out of mercy.
Out of shame.
NICE!
"Murder" from Sepultura.