The Copperhead | poem by Randi Neville

The Copperhead

My dad taught me about snakes.

He taught me to watch the grass

for errant movement,

to notice the patterns

laced on their backs,

the shapes of their heads,

spades and hognoses,

and to listen for rattles.

“They look like leaves sometimes,”

he said.

I pointed,

“Like that one?”

I was three

and had spotted my first snake,

a copperhead.

My dad told me to stand back,

as he entered into combat,

armed with a shovel.

He danced with the snake;

it was mating season,

and it was angry to be interrupted.

It raised up,

lunged,

struck at my dad.

I screamed!

My dad leapt back,

dodged the strike,

and like Poseidon and his trident,

he stabbed down,

pinning the copperhead to the ground.

With a deft turn of the spade,

the copperhead

became just copper,

beheaded.

“You have to bury the head,”

my dad said,

“or the body

will continue to move

until sundown.”

Shovel still in hand,

my dad dug a shallow grave

and buried the snake.

Randi Neville (she/they) is a disabled queer writer originally from Conroe, Texas. They are currently working on their first novel and continuing their poetic journey. Their interests include watching pro-wrestling, watercolor painting, and being the world's best aunt. They are previously published in Coffee People Zine, Every Body Magazine, Haunted Portal Magazine, The Ana, and forthcoming in The Listening Eye. They currently reside in Houston, Texas with their husband and family. Find them on socials: @RandiTheAuthor.