The Wet Monkey L Poem by Morgan Michaels

Nothing like that had ever happened before
at Casa Verde-the name Aunt Salome gave it
soon after it was built, all of native mahogany
with a no-more-than-expected number of windows,
so why the name I'm not exactly sure,

Unless you count the time the anaconda got in-
not a very big one, but feisty all the same,
with a fine sleek head, breathing scales, a slide-out pink tongue
and soft, sable-on-ochre markings looking like infinity signs.
It seemed to scrawl its name in the shallow pool
'anaconda, anaconda' starting ripples up
that doused themselves out at the rim,
til it slithered up the dropped-in stick ladder
and quickly disappeared toward the forest,
flattening the grass as it swam.

But this was different: a mammal.
How did I get mixed up in it?
Well I heard the whole thing from the start,
beginning with a splash, a little wet kiss sound
about 5 am, followed by a silence-milliseconds,
then a white-faced cry,
which could have come from a child,
followed by a terrified gulp
issued from a warm-blooded gullet, I supposed.

Mindless of the chill (jungle-mornings get cool)
I leapt to the window wearing not a stitch....