Plunge

    by Leslie Clark
                     
Newly diagnosed with a disease out of nowhere,
I sit in my light-filled kitchen
attempting to choke down some leftovers.
Mental shuffling of internet information,
printed pamphlets, grim pronouncements
of the white-coated ones, all about a treatment
that threatens to be more sinister
than what it attempts to cure.

My cat perches on the chair next to me,
buzzsaw purring–to comfort me, I hope,
though more likely lusting after the shrimp
in my pasta.  I pull one out to feed her, when
without warning, a writhing, diamond-patterned 
curlicue plummets from the skylight, bounces once
off the table, then lands at my feet, hissing and coiling.
For a moment, I’m stunned into stillness.
The feline, intrigued, leaps down to investigate.
That thrusts me into motion.  I grab the cat and shut
her in safety, punch three numbers on the phone,
return with a broom to keep the poisonous one at bay
until summoned officials arrive.

A friend, upon hearing the story, says,
Imagine how the snake felt.
Yes.
Somnolent sun-baking among tall grasses,
snatched by a sharp- beaked creature, which,
pursued by a smaller bird, screeches, loses grip.
The fall to the roof below, seeking escape
slither to a clear dome,
a baby snake-sized hole in its side.
The wriggle through,
the plunge 
into yet another fray.