ahead in line, a shriek, a swell
of flustered giggles
what is it? never one for surprises,
you hesitate, not wanting to
reach into this velvet-shrouded hole,
imagining the hairy legs
of some unintentional arachnid,
who would obviously be tempted
by a dusty curtained box
you find no comfort in your classmates’
whole, unravaged fingers,
in their laughter and high, excited voices
—no, you alone realize the danger
of reaching blindly into blackness
consider the rattlesnake, lurking
between boulders—the one your mother
surprised when, as a young girl, she
climbed a mountain with her spaniel,
who jumped bravely forward
to take the strike, saving her,
saving you, who know better
than to put your hand where you can’t see
the child next to you shuffles and sighs,
impatient, and you also know shame,
know courage, know you have to
press beyond the darkness, where
the tiny skeleton of some forsaken fledgling
waits for soft-seeking fingertips to probe
the tiny holes through which it saw a world
larger even than your own
waits for you to give name to its being,
to its unbecoming, waits for you to imagine
velvety feathers silkening a quivering breast
before it fell, before it gave its life
so you can have this moment, this horror,
this upwelling of giddy relief,
so you can hold the elegant fragility
of bleached bones, so you, too, can wait,
and know,
and know,
and you release
the tiny creature with a shiver of regret,
before dusting your hand off
on a blue-jeaned leg,
and allowing yourself to be
jostled forward again, toward the next exhibit
(c) 2019, by Hannah Six
Image: Pixabay
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