by Cat Dixon

The red, blue, and green dots
scramble with each blink,
and when I squeeze my eyes

the spirals jump and reappear—confetti
like the sparkles the sun creates  
on the lake at sunset. I hope our pet snake

returns to this creepy hallway—
a darker shadow waits at the end.
No, that’s your ghost who flits out

of view. My net can’t capture you.
My eyes haven’t adjusted to absence.
The night is endless. The hall is broken

by wires, branches, and dead snakes.
Where did you bury the snake?
In the garden under the lilac perhaps.

The golden snake anchored us to day—
we turned on its light, feed it once a week—
frozen mice defrosted under a heat lamp— 

turned off its light and checked the humidity. 
Without the snake and you, we’re luckless
and burned. The light is wrong.

Can I hold a mirror for you? In this form
are you still filled with piss and shit?
Does the snake slither up your neck

and squeeze a little too tight? Once
he escaped the enclosure. That night we
found him hiding beneath the table.

We were amazed he didn’t get far.
I imagine you at the end of the hallway,
and I’m disappointed again in how close

you still are. I’d fly to the stars,
bathe in the galaxies, creep
up to the gods and strangle their throats.

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Cat Dixon is the author of What Happens in Nebraska (Stephen F. Austin University Press, 2022) along with six other poetry chapbooks and collections. She is a poetry editor with The Good Life Review. Recent poems published in Thimble Lit Mag, Poor Ezra’s Almanac, and Moon City Review.