we whittled the spears ourselves

sticks found along the lakeshore

brittle driftwood

               hardly fit as walking sticks

clutched between our fingers

like sacred weapons

we are snake hunters

               so we tell ourselves

and setout down the shoreline

the brown water churning

in Texas heat

our father jokes

               Lake Lewisville has killed more

than any cottonmouth

               but we take no notice

poking sand and clay

with our makeshift spears

eager to hunt

our mother gave us the snakeskins

               tied around our waists

some fishermen had given them to

                               her the morning before

caught the mocs while seining

               cut and skinned their hides

they itch like rough sandpaper

                across our flesh

                               the stiff parchment

of our childhood

a fish jumps near us

               our sticks crash to the sand

stilled poison

               on bare shore

our hunting finally at an end

---

Sean Ferrier-Watson has pieces published or forthcoming in Lovecraftiana, Discretionary Love, Borderlands: Texas Poetry Review, Better Than Starbucks, Hawk & Whippoorwill, Hellbound Books, and Illumen. He was recently a finalist in Crystal Lake Publishing’s Shallow Waters Flash Fiction Contest. His book The Children’s Ghost Story in America was published by McFarland in 2017. Follow him at www.seanferrierwatson.com.