The View from Below
To my captive snake, I am surely God.
When my sudden shadow moves over
her tank-world, fresh water appears.
A mere snap of my terrible fingers and
her fluorescent red sun beams down
its warmth–bountiful, delicious.
How to explain to her that it’s all just
assumed roles and presumed authority?
How to tell her that she has conquered
and devoured my kind countless times?
But we all live out so many of our
myths without challenge, don’t we?
My pet writhes her sleekness against
my rough hand as if to extract some
blessing from it, like a peasant rubbing
the holiness of the passing messiah.
She waits for my grace to flow, opens
her mouth as if to let a prayer loose
and, in this worn mask of protector,
in my burlesque role as fulfillment
and light, I am pleased by this.
With a wave of my hovering hand,
mice fall into her pious jaws like manna.
And the hierarchy remains intact.
And we are content as we are. Right?
- James R. Whitley
