I Was Eight Years Old The First Time My Mother Threw a Snake.

I was eight years old the first time my mother threw a snake.
She whirled it around above her head
like Indian Jones
while me and my sister stood with eyes
open real wide.
Her feet were on the concrete porch
up high and right at the end
we stayed on the ground in
the speckled island where Chelsea’s
bluegreen lawn mixed all up with our
dry brown tufts.

She saw the tail going up
into the post, the broken piece making a little mouse-door
at the bottom.
We screamed, but all she saw
when she came—breathing hard—
was a shiny black tail, so she grabbed it
swung it to make it too dizzy to find its way
back, she said
“You won’t have babies in my house”
and let him fly.

The next time she didn’t exactly throw it
instead she grabbed it by the tail and pulled
to keep it from getting away.
A different snake, a different house.
She hit it with a shovel
trying to chop
its belly open, tears on her face
this snake wasn’t full of baby snakes
like the last one, looking to make a home,
but of baby rabbits with soft fur
and empty bellies.

She was crying and yelling
and hacking at the snake
who jumped and twisted
around
like she was the dead bunnies
only momma.
I don’t know,
maybe she was.