​The Rattlesnake

​
You can smell them, you know; 
my elderly gardener friend, 
speaking as an odd connoisseur, 
pronounced the rattlesnake’s scent 
“musky but with overtones of 
cucumber and barley.”
                 
She was right. I’ve smelled them, too. 
Early in the heavy dew, 
I’ve sensed their recent presence, 
essence lingering on my garden paths 
like remnants of stale perfume long trapped 
perhaps in leather or like the must of spent desire,
tell-tale fragrance left on grass and twig
as muscles silent-slid the scales toward 
the sleeping mouse, the nest of eggs, 
meals of need and dark-quick stealth 
not begrudged a legless life.
    
So when the headlights of our friends’ car caught 
her in her evening hunt—across our drive,
toward the calling woods—her shock at light
and engine roar was not enough to turn her 
from her task and from the crushing tread.

We had to finish what the tires began, of course.
A rattlesnake is not a thing to nurse.
My husband took his father’s shotgun 
from the highest closet shelf and— 
loathing his role—aimed the barrel 
at the heart-shaped head and fired. 
         
For several mornings after, 
I was sure I smelled the musk, 
distinct but fading, 
winding through the garden air 
like breath of soil, like pleasant smoke, 
like incense.