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

Years later, with a new house,
our yard had its own snake,
a long, sleek Black Racer
who swallowed a live frog
on our front walk and who
terrified my daughter, 
streaking under her swing.

And there was a snapping turtle--
big around as a bucket--who twice
wedged itself against the back door.
Who can reason with reptiles?
We wanted our fingers intact so
we used another door until
that old dragon lumbered off.

Then 600 miles away
Three Mile Island blew, and
I imagined radioactive gas
racing down the east coast
to poison my children as we
sat on the veranda,
a black snake at our feet.