Slow-Worm



You twist snake-like across the grass,
The dog prancing around you.
I run out, a madwoman
Yelling and clapping,
Drag the dog away
Then check you are still alive
Beneath the rhododendron.
You are. A wound to the tail,
A little blood, nothing too terrible.
You'll be alright, I whisper,
Before returning to my guests.

Three days later
And you are back, basking
In your usual spot
In the vegetable patch.
I smile and sigh with relief.
But even as I watch,
A fly lands on your side
And you do not move.
Clotted with foreboding,
I come out to investigate.

A row of miniscule oval eggs
Lines your wound.
Oh no. Gently, I pick up your
Dense, oily length.
Cobalt specks on silver
Flash in the sun, and ...
You're still alive!

But no, it is only
Sun-warmth that clings to you.
You are dead,
Your eyes shut tight
Against me.

I rinse the fly-eggs out of the wound
Then bury you, recalling how
Three nights ago I had
Watched a film, eaten pizza,
Laughed.

The dog throws me puzzled looks.
He doesn't understand why I shout and curse him,
Why he is suddenly canis non grata.
I had thought him better than this;
Better, at any rate, than a cat.

As if he knows,
He guards the grave,
A ridiculous sentinel
Loaded with irony.



Nathalie Abi-Ezzi

If you have any thoughts on this poem,  Nathalie Abi-Ezzi  would be pleased to hear them.