Perhaps there is a sequence
That you have not learned
And that is why

That is why you have slipped out
Of something, slightly disjointed.
You feel it unhinge, bump, you refocus

You limp through the big yard
You limp like you father always did
When you knew him older
And he had that disease that snakes get
That fusing bone disease
That hereditary disease

He would pretend to fishing
And make elaborate sequences
To display his fishing
And to hide his limp

It works for a little while
The important thing
The important thing is that
We appear to walk normally
That we fit properly and not
Draw attention to our peculiarities
And not draw attention

So I have learned that, at least
At least I have that.

And the hat that makes
Me look like my father
Slips off the rusty hook and falls
Into the shallow brown river
It floats briefly, amused
Like trying to catch a water snake

I suppose I should decide whether to chase it or not
I should weigh things, calculate.
I could come up with a sequence;
Chase, splash, capture, unhinge
Unhinge like a snake swallowing an egg

But I am filling up with rust
And grate constantly
That Father’s snake coils in me like
A black serpent or perhaps the dry bones of a serpent
That I saw at the Museum of Natural History

Who could know if the sequence was right?
If the tiny, delicate bones were in the right places
Connected each to each and exact

It doesn’t really matter. It looked right
Everyone would assume it was a snake
It was a snake
Long expected, ancient, and fixed as pure glass

 

©2007 Donald W. Hayward