Garter, Copper, Water

He’s my age, and for once in Wise, Virginia
I believe it: same confused complexion
(baby pimples nose and chin,
around the eyes first fine contrails scratching
vacant sky), same dislike to sit
while others stand. Same no gold band.
He’s clean: I like the way he preened today
before clinic, though he circles us
most warm days in oily T-shirts, mowing
our field, taking care of our snake problem.
He hands me the old inhaler dimpled with bites,
times he dug when air couldn’t come
fast enough. I thank him and set it aside
as a piece of jewelry too nice for day,
or one that would clasp too much.

The snakes were in frenzies of lust this year,
record-breaking litters and a den in every teardown
past Guest River toward the mines.
He gets them with his shovel or his truck.
One filthy time, with his push mower.
King snake, queen snake, milk snake, green snake,
garter, water, copperhead, hognose—
snuff photos on his phone, all these dead
frogeaters, ankle biters—fifteen bodies
later, they seem less like killers
and more like grammar, giving and taking
breath and stops between short, hollow teeth.
"How many would really bite?"
"You don’t wait to find out it’s mean."

There’s a clay-red corn snake I can’t unsee,
flayed skin like a mother’s last touch
on a wrapped birthday present, cool silver runnel
of scissor sucking red ribbon into its current
then releasing it, twisted astonished,
the stiff bright spiral that means
in every language, I took great pains with this.