the snake

my father stomped &
ground the copper-
head’s head beneath
his heel & flicked his
cigarette into the creek–
I fought a bass with
knotted line & reel
until my fingers bled;
the hook embedded
deep within its throat
to where I had to reach
through trembling gills
to pluck & retrieve the
plastic bait & all the while
my father’s heel pushed
bone & flesh to oozy slush
while the snake writhed &
limped toward death

I was ten or maybe
twelve & impressed
by how casual it was
to grind a life to dust
& light another smoke
& watch a son catch his
first fish all on his own
& walk away from what
he’d done without a
glimpse back or doubt
about the rightness
of it all; the snake
was just a snaky thing
doing what it must;
my father & I broke
its trust of creeks
& frogs & easy
meals before
its head was crushed

& still I think about
the fish, the creek,
my father on that day
so young & self-assured
& unaware of years to
come, the jobs to lose,
what the bottles held
how his children fled
& wives both left–
what I remember is
the sun, his cheeks,
the cigarettes, his grin
as the snake turned
silent in the heat