Lost in Tall Grass

Published in Forge (Fall 2012)

She said she knew the way and so I followed,
up the swath of matted dried grass
into the hills above Los Olivos
where she had once devoured a new life.

But her old running route is overgrown,
and we weave among the heavy limbs of live oak,
grown impossibly far from their base,
now resting along the path.

Then, there is no path at all.
We track winding patches of bare earth,
thinking each time we have picked up the trail,
until it ends in a mass of thistle and piñon.

Finally, we give up and bushwhack down,
the bite of stinging nettles on our hands,
the dig of burrs in our socks.
Donna stomping ahead to scare off any rattlers,

which I appreciated
but thought overly dramatic,
until we reached the parking lot, where
talking with the locals

she grabbed the shovel leaning against the shed
and without so much as a gasp
brought it down with a thud,
severing the head of a young, lost rattler.

The young ones are the most dangerous she said,
don’t ration their venom,
spend it all
on just one bite.

She said it gently though,
perhaps reading well my consternation,
knowing I was scared not for me,
but for you.