I Would Have Called, But You Might Have Me Made as Drunk

Jaime Warburton

I want to say something about this fossil of a snake
eating dinosaur eggs, the one where you can see in stone

how the snake, nearly twelve feet long, coiled
around the egg, jaw open, the hatchling reptile emerging.

Its head must have still been soft, back then, soft and damp.
Can we think about that? That moment

just before being sated, before dying in the process of birth.
I want to say something about the catastrophe

that must have frozen them there, I want to say
something like I am the snake and you are the hatchling,

or the other way around, like I want to mention unexpected snow
days or nursing home hallways, the way it feels to sing harmony

with ten other women, and the nights I ate spaghetti dinners
with Sisters of Mercy in the Motherhouse, the way my first cup

of coffee tasted in eighth grade, and the afternoon I heard a rabbit scream.
I want to say something about the night I swore

the moon was moving through the sky. Spinning.
It was only the clouds, sure, but for ten minutes I stood,

head thrown back, and let myself believe
something amazing was happening.