Ark for the Axolotl

Remember the axolotl and her anxiety,
because when Noah got to Mexico,
with his wife, and kids, and net,
Noah saw her front paw budding anew with blood
and thought just one will work when it’s time.

Remember the axolotl when she saw
all the other animals gracefully
entwined. Even the box turtles turned spritely, with eight sets of toes
sticking out like exclamation points,
the two giraffes with necks wended into hearts.

And she wondered what shape her story would be,
with thighs eggless, mateless. An open
parenthesis ellipses close parenthesis,
perhaps. Nothing inside but the hope that
things will work when it’s time and the worry
that for his disobedience, Noah might be remiss.

Carriage for water. Barge. Boat. Ship.
She won’t use the word “ark,”
because “ark” sounds like “arc,”
and what if there is no shape for this story?
What if things won’t work when it’s time?

And the axolotl’s anxiety must’ve been like
squatting in a bathroom stall under fluorescents,
blood and tissue in clumps between thighs,
then exiting through an elevator and cold autumn
to a doctor who says these things happen
sometimes. Things’ll work when it’s time.

For now, the axolotl watches the others
urgently courting. She’ll wait for dry land
to be close by before rending herself in half
and re-growing each half—trying to, at least.
(What if things don’t work when it’s time?)
Her smile is secretly a grimace,
her eyes reflect black like the storm.

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