poem 7

Plainsight

People fear what they can see:
the swollen figure-eight
spinning shimmering thread
with spiny legs;
the sly, slithering predator
whose fangs stop hearts;

And this relic, her teeth grinning,
busy basking on stubby legs,
her rugged skin camouflaged
atop a glistening log.

She hears the faint dip
of an oar in water and slides in
one great liquid movement
under the river, invisible.

The sun feels like love,
radiant on her bumpy back.
And when she's hungry
she’ll chomp fish, birds, turtles –
perhaps the occasional puppy –
but not humans. (Not usually.)

The real fears
(vanishing neurotransmitters, vagabond cells, viruses)
are hard to wrap our teeth around.
Their symbols lack a sinuous grip.
Merciless,
they’ll drag us under tightly
where we’d otherwise
never dare to go.

While the alligator
huddles atop her makeshift raft
measuring the tremors
of each tiny ripple:
each moment she floats,
she falls in love again
with an incandescent sky.