The Shape That Stayed

On a walk in the wilderness

a long, translucent and scaly encasement is found in the thick brush.

As you happen upon its dazzling design

you falter and step back,

carefully observing

for movement that never comes.

Eye caps that remain intact

but purposeless.

The diamond shape

that extends

into a cylindrical tube

that stretches

then tapers at the end.

Open and detached

it is cavernous

but sits flat

and holds no weight.

Fear turns to fascination

as you pick up a twig,

snapped from some storm-battered branch,

and gently lift the skin.

Crouching for a closer look,

flipping what remains to reveal

the glistening jeweled exterior.

Perfect in its imitation

of what was

and what was left behind.

With the sleeve of your hoodie or sweater

you lift the empty skin jacket

and note

the lifeless eye caps,

gently holding them to the sunlight

as it reaches down between the trees

to reveal

The window to nothing.

And the mouth

you imagined fierce

moments before

is now a gap

of no consequence.

The long hollow tube

that once held prey

is now a footprint

of appetite

and survival.

Yes—muscle, hunger

now struggles

to hold itself

as you let it lie

on the dirt and the grass.

You trace gently the opening,

carefully,

with a measure of respect,

as your finger caresses

the dry paper-like surface,

following its winding length

till you come to the tail.

As you gaze and ponder,

your hands straighten the casing

into an imitation of life.

But it falls flat.

So you ease just a finger,

one solitary digit

into the opening,

filling and giving weight

to what remains.

It is fuller now.

No more alive.

You gently retract your finger

from the shed skin

and it collapses

just as easily

as it had done before.

In that moment you also notice

the absence.

No hiss.

No slither.

Do you make the sound

just to give the silence

something to hold

or accept the absence?

Imitation is not resurrection.