Our cat leapt upon the young garter snake. 
I had to pick up a brick to crush what would 
not die. A perfectly shaped head with eyes, 
crisp against a plantain leaf, slowly moving 
from side to side, with more apparent grace 
and beauty than I have ever managed, even 
when I was young and filled with baby deer. 
The next thing I saw was me pushing down 
the brick. I used a rake to lift the green string 
into the wild mint growing beside the patio. 
I'm telling you this because later the stars 
shone in great profusion, and I could feel — 
as I can the spine down my back — the cold 
expanse of nothing between each of those
specks. Silly lights. This morning I thwack 
a spider on the ceiling. It falls behind a print 
of a Mayan king lifting the god of lightning. 
I crush the spider and say to you, It must be 
autumn because now I kill one or two things 
every day. And you say to me nothing. 
You put down your yam, walk to me, 
and lift your arms around these shoulders 
shaking like the fierce heart of a rabbit.