Her trembling hands hover above
The beast. Timidly, her fingers
Brush its hard scales. She presses
A gentle touch to black, then to
White, startled at the coldness and
The responsiveness. It is an animal
Eager to learn a new trick,
Friendly to a new master,
But more paralyzing than a tiger.
It cries to her touch, but does not
Move: it is a poised cobra faced
With a charmer's flute, following
The graceful press of fingertips.
Sounding softly, then louder - a
Cheerful creature is easily led
From its silent cage. Each lively
Cry is compounded now with a
Stronger press. With the force of
Two hands, she reveals its form completely.
Not one beast, but a hive of hundreds,
Each sinuously crawling around her
Wrist - sliding up her sleeves -
Into her ears. Her body rocks, pent
Up in a storm of acceptance.
Bobbing and rising, nearly sinking
She tames the beast. In her
Moment of victory, there is silence.