by
Walter Bargen
Once I heard the
high-pitched
squeals of distress
coming
from an embankment
at the upper end
of a city lake. I stepped through
the high grass until
seeing
the shine of coiled
black scales.
I couldn't see its
head and used
my foot to nudge
until it turned
out of its own
entangling, jaw unhinged,
and stared back,
hardly concerned
with the intrusion,
its neck continuing
to convulse and
ripple, a slow
drawing down of fur
into its mouth.
A few feet away, the
nest entrance
was littered with
torn bedding, hair
and straw, and one
small rabbit stared
out as if not
understanding, or frozen
to fear, or knowing
there was no place
else, or what was
the use;
the interminable
list any of us
repeats after a long
day,
and what could
something so young do
but run into another
mouth. I didn't chase
it off, and stood by
as the snake
worked at swallowing
what seemed
impossible, a body
four times wider than
itself, and it too
paused as if to doubt.
Straightening its
body, slow undulations
began, a pumping up
and down, a writhing,
until the long-eared
head was left
protruding from the
snake's lipless
mouth, head within
head, like lacquered
Chinese boxes, each
opened lid leading
to a smaller identical
one, hinting
of an endless
diminishing, then one box opens
its eyes and
screams.
Chinese Boxes first
appeared in Spoon River Review.