Pain is inevitable. Suffering is optional.

—Haruki Murakami

My lawnmower has arranged
the snake’s bones in sharp angles.

A painful trigonometry.
He bends into his oncoming death.

The mercy of a rock not soon enough.
I am counting the seconds until

he ceases to kink in unnatural twists,
finally unfurling in soft curls

to transcend the grip of life.
He leaves behind the lesson

of the two arrows in the quiver.
The first an inevitable shooting along

neural pathways. The second
never to be aimed or raised

to an open, peaceful sky.