15 September 2007 | Vol. 7, No. 3
Not here, not dead.
– for my brother
That summer was wheat
colored, rattler skins hanging paper thin
on the corral. Smoking hot luckys, the sandpaper filled
my young lungs. Watching him make 'em heave,
like the dead baby snake he'd kill
again and again because you can't kill 'em once.
No—the nerves keep 'em shaking, and so
if you take a shovel and split the body, bi-
furcate him, trifurcate him, his little teeth still spit
hot wet and his rattler still
dances in the tall grass.
About the author:
Nik De Dominic is a writer, living and studying in Tuscaloosa, Alabama. However good the tea may be, California will always be his home.