I'm free to leave

On our first drive when you yelled "Snake!"
I braced against the lump
under your tires;
the men I've known would swerve across two lanes
to kill a sunning hognose,

its harmless rattle lodged inside
my throat. Not you. You stopped
the car, crouched by
the snake. Your fingers caught its neck like you'd
pinch lightning in mid-air. Awed,

you showed the grotto of its jeweled
and earless head, white-welled
muscle of mouth,
round eyes free of venom, mosaic vent
beneath where excrement

comes out. Far enough from the road
you disarmed each other--
almost purring,
it unwound, silk spirals into kudzu,
then vanished. Since then, more than once,

love-wracked, you've turned with that same awe:
"How is it you love me
so much?" Well,
because you stopped. Because your fingers cup
my neck, and tenderness rises

beneath them. Because I'm free
to leave. Open your eyes,
my charmer: I'm
still wound around your arm. When the snake loves,
it's the fiercest kind of love.

[Beth Ann Fennelly, 'The Snake Charmer', in Open House]