I Told My Wife I Killed Something

It must have slid through a hole in the fence in search of dark and cool, a spot to gather its dry skin, slip soundlessly beneath a suture of weeds. My wife could not have seen it settled there, along the edge of the yard’s snug universe. The mower shrugged off gods’ work. The body was nearly sliced in half. Its bottom end draped like a wet sock. The top was a slow coil as it twisted its small head toward the sky. I knew the merciful thing to do but didn’t do it. Instead, for weeks after, that smooth creature slithered between the crevices of my thoughts, flicking its tongue and hissing its faithful, failing prayer.