When I run past the uncounted trees,
groves of mango, eucalyptus—
how the grass slips beneath my feet,
how the wind circles up my legs,
       (invisible snake I can’t escape)
how the kingfisher-blue sky grows
sunnier each second as I run
       up the hill almost blinded,
           run down the other side, my tongue dry,
to the lake where the sky is trapped, tamed blue.
But closer, it is clear water. As I drink
green snakes swim up to the surface.
I recoil amazed, run back faster, faster.

When I get home
he’s there: King Cobra
tightly curled up in a corner.
He looks tired.
        “Come inside, close the door,
        don’t run away,” he seems to smile.
        “I live in your garden,
        I chose it because of the huge purple-golden dahlias.
        I’ve never seen such tall stalks,
        such plump flowers, and the mice!”
        “What do you want?” I ask afraid
        his sunken hood will expand.
        “Oh, you needn’t worry, you needn’t worship me
        as all the rest do. Please don’t change.
        Everywhere I go people pester me
        with their prayers,
        their hundred bowls of milk a day.
        There’s only so much milk I can drink.
        I won’t be caught
        and have my teeth pulled out.
        I won’t be stuffed in a basket
        and commanded to rise, wave after wave,
        to ripple around the straw rim.
        As if their baskets could contain me.
        as if their bulging pipes could move me.
                   Oh I am so tired…” he sighs.
        “What do you want?” I ask.
        “I want to live in your garden,
        to visit you, especially those nights you sing,
        let me join you.
         And once in a while, let me lie around your neck
        and share a bowl of milk…”