Flight Of The Unicorn Snake

I know nothing
of a human heart.

Mine’s not that, of course;
it’s an entire animal instead — 
leaping inside, eating freely,
tearing at me for purchase. 

What kind of animal, you ask —
reptile, mammal, something
fantastical?

No fixed label —
call it Angel Dog, call it
Devil Cat, call it Alien
Intruder At Home Now.
Call it, if you must, Unicorn Snake.

Whatever we choose to call it,
it’s a badass.  It makes a hole,
fills it with meat, sleeps in it
fitfully, comes out mostly
spoiling for war; when in love
it’s far worse — in truth
it’s colder, calmer when it hates. 

Do you see this tale
of the Unicorn Snake as a
metaphor, smart guy?  No
way — I’m a zoo, a terrarium
of great size with a big creature
inside and not one ounce of training
has ever stuck. I don’t bother labeling
what cannot be described or held.