The curve of the weasel’s confidently cocked
back left claw snagged in the blue wings
flexes into a smooth weasel-back drop
down to where its teeth grace
the lissome writhing neck. You couldn’t be blamed
for thinking they’re the same,
the weasel and the basilisk. And this is how it is
when you try to think about a problem. What to say
to the difficult sister in difficulty. How to hold
your smile at the dressing room mirror. Wanting not
to have to put back the high shelf olive oil.
You and the problem become whole,
become the problem. It’s actually the smell
of a weasel that kills a basilisk,
but look how gracefully it bites.
Catie Bull's poems have appeared in journals such as FIELD, Literary Bohemian, Bellingham Review, Switched-on-Gutenberg, Dialogist and others. She lives in Tacoma, WA and is an alum of Oberlin College and U.C. Davis.
