Two performers, Asun Noales and Sebastian Rowisnki,
stand in a circle of small jaguar heads. 
The heads are sculpted from pearl-white plastic
by an artist named Susana Guerrero.
The heads are perfectly identical.
Their mouths stretch agape, as if caught mid-roar.
Beyond rows of jagged teeth, 
each throat swells with inky black.

It helps to know, especially
when you’re hiding.

She grins to herself, then, since they friended
each other at some point during that night,
she opens messenger and starts to write
a message: “Hi. It’s been a while
but I’d still like to be your friend.”

As the only mammals that can fly, they are often 
imagined as something not-quite-mammal, 
a species dancing in the liminal space
between bird and rodent.

In the quieting room, the machine hum
settles into the periphery.

As I watched small flitting creatures 
appear again and again in the poems,
I was struck with a sudden desire to witness
some such small creatures in person.

When he was small, a Huey strafed
the walls of his house. Abuela’s options 
were either pray God would skew the hail

An original poem by Tom Paine.

What are snakes afraid of?