Jacob Paulson

It rests curled in its den, craving to be unwound.

The latches of its prison click, and its deep mouth shines,

It wakes, it remembers.

The snake glows in incandescent light, eager at its new chance,

Forming itself, stretching and contracting.

Perhaps its new owner can tame it,

Or will it slither back into its velvet tomb?

To be stored again in a concrete cave,

Where cool, stagnant air lulls to slumber.

The metal tube bends, a golden serpent twisting with calm fluidity.

Scales of corrosion pockmark its body, scars of a long life.

The flare of its neck twinkles as it aims towards the horizon.

Tiny dots and swirls reflect within the snake’s mouth,

Only to be pushed back by a burst of warm air.