a very smooth stick behind the shed

i show

her the half-moon scar on my knee,

and tell

her the story

of how

i picked up a snake

at the age

of five,

thinking it

was a stick behind my

grandmother's shed

in New England.

how could a stick be so smooth

and shiny,

a keeper

if there ever was one.

and then

the frantic toss of it into

a tree

and me falling

into the broken shards of glass

in front of me.

mason jars

and beer bottles,

shot glasses.

Canadian Club bottles tossed

onto the ground

with other trash.

i never knew my grandmother

was such a lush.