I’m sorry I watched—jaws spread, gentle
pink interior visible, contrasted against black
rodent fur—stared as you walked your lower jaw
closer to tail, curved teeth gripping, pulling
body back. I couldn’t help it, wondered how
it feels to unhinge, swallow something
so large, the strain and squeeze of muscle
visible beneath gold and brown scale
spotted exterior. I know you’re nervous,
in a vulnerable state—hidden behind paper
half-curtain taped to glass tank for privacy,
the illusion of safety. So, I avoided eye contact
until just the tail hung from your mouth—slurped
down throat, the lump muscled, squashed,
and moving through the body.

Kate Wright received her BA and MA in English from Penn State and her MFA in Creative Writing and Environment from Iowa State University. This poem was inspired by her time volunteering at the Iowa Wildlife Center, where she particularly enjoyed working with the reptiles. Her work has appeared in or is forthcoming from in Digging Through the Fat, Up the Staircase Quarterly, Rogue Agent, Ghost City Review, and elsewhere. You can find her on Twitter @KateWrightPoet.