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Garter
1971, 2021
We scrambled down and splashed this brook.
We stacked a trout-pool weir.
On root-shot bank–the slipping snake
Moved sidewise through bank slough.
We leapt behind thin firs and spit
Our swears like hawked-up snot;
We hurled our rocks. My half-brick hit.
The snake slid slower, slowed
Until it stopped. Abashed, we crept
Up closer, close we grabbed
Fern brakes to poke it, playing dead?
We reached, in turn, left hands,
Our fingers drew down belly length.
Beneath mud-slickened skin’s
Grain ran a garter’s stripe, red bars.
Sun-warm and bendy fresh
To death, left lying for light rain.
Its pink tongue tasted air. |
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