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Poem	As cats bring their smiling mouse-kills and hypnotised birds, slinking home under the light of a summer's morning to offer the gift of a corpse, you carry home the snake you thought was sunning itself on a rock at the river's edge: sun-fretted, gracile, it shimmies and sways in your hands like a muscle of light, and you gather it up like a braid for my admiration. I can't shake the old wife's tale that snakes never die, they hang in a seamless dream of frogskin and water, preserving a ribbon of heat in a bone or a vein, a cold-blooded creature's promise of resurrection, and I'm amazed to see you shuffle off the woman I've know for years, tracing the lithe, hard body, the hinge of the jaw, the tension where sex might be, that I always assume is neuter, when I walk our muffled house at nightfall, throwing switches, locking doors.
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