Stink

Stink Most everything in the woods had a smell. If it didn't we kicked the heads off skunk cabbages to create stink which curdled each intake of breath. The artesian spring smelled of sulfur, but tasted sweet. Out hands cupped, we drank until our lips kissed our flesh. Trillium and Jack-in-the-Pulpit had no odor. That was when we got busy with our feet. we looked close at these woodland flowers. They never curled inward. The price of their beauty was the death of cabbages. What brought us to standstill was the scent of cucumbers— the smell that a copperhead was near. It told us we were trespassers. We huddled, looked at the beds of decay under our feet, anticipated a sting near the ankle. Our toes clenched tight with each step. We inhaled winning breaths at the edge of the woods. Laughed that we'd defeated danger. Vowed to go back the next day. Crossing the cow pasture, we yelled blasphemies at the Guernseys, lifted their tails, made fun of their assholes, and jumped garden snakes coiled in defense of who we were. —Deborah Byrne 87 ...