In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:

26 Timber Rattler A snake is not a branch is not a stone though limber as a branch and cold as stone— a single sheathing he contracts or doesn’t rings him till he quivers, supple cousin to an arrow stopped by oak. His lidless eyes track wearily, devoid of surprise, my mongrel tremoring to point and growling— a low indignant grrr at what keeps coiling and uncoiling there in the cold, damp root-hollow of a black and crumbling stump: a root that broods no leaves, but stirs, stirs. He rubs his chin against his spine, he stares past hatred always, always to a grey tormented dream: tongue flickering helplessly, electric as a dead frog’s jerking nerve. Arms, legs, that twinge unbearably to move but cannot move. A double ache that burgeons like lust behind his lipless grin, the surgeon’s needles prickling with venom in his yawn. This chill October light. Winter coming on. The cold biting into him like the voice of a god saying, “If I made the choice I could save you, but I don’t think I will.” He stirs like kittens keeping warm and full, whose life’s a plummet down a frozen well. The spade head wavers. Thick as a man’s wrist. Let him alone, dog. Maybe he prayed one last, one hellborn mercy, and so the rattle. Let him alone for that, his curse, and title. ...

Share