As a child I read and reread
Kipling's tale of Riki-Tiki-Tavi,
believing in the heroic mongoose 
who killed the cobras
Nag and Nagina and saved the lives 
of a British family living in India. 

Years later, with a new house, our yard
in Georgia had its own snake,
a long, sleek Black Racer who 
swallowed a live frog on our front walk
and terrified my daughter by streaking
under her swing. Then there was
a snapping turtle big as a bucket, who
twice wedged itself against our back door.
Who can reason with retiles? We wanted
our fingers intact so we used another door
until the old dragon lumbered off.

Then 600 miles away Three Mile Island blew
and I imagined radioactive gases
racing down the east coast
to poison my children and my husband.
I wanted him to say, "We're safe."
But he sat, frozen, on the veranda,
a great black snake at our feet.