by James Evans
On the day you died a snake fell
from the sky as I opened the overhead door
to my garage. It thumped long and black
against my chest, slid down
my legs and raced away
into the green, tall grass. It could be an omen,
I thought, but I don't really believe
in things like that and neither did you. Fearing
its return, I identified the intruder
and was relieved to learn that this
species of snake is non-venomous and,
unlike their scientific name suggests;
they do not constrict their prey. Instead,
they pin it with body loops
and swallow it alive.
James Evans is a writer from Kentucky. His work has appeared in the San Diego Poetry Annual, The Coop: A Poetry Cooperative, Anti-Heroin Chic, Rat's Ass Review, BULL, & elsewhere.
January House Literary Journal 
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