Americana Stories – Poetry

FOR ALL THE SNAKES
AND WHISKEY
IN IRELAND,
by Brand Rackley

building an observation deck for migratory bird
watching one summer, my friend and i sought
shade ‘neath one of its completed sections.

it was hot, the oklahoma kind, where the
panhandle gets hotter than the pan.
the heat waves were enough to pull us under.

as we drank cutlass-cool water from our
government-issue tin cups, i noticed a baby
rattlesnake coiled next to my friend—its tiny
rattle, a thimble-sized maraca. we’d been there
for a time i wouldn’t call short. so had it.

cold-blooded creatures need care just as much
as the warm, and just as much respect.
we didn’t bother it, much to the horror and
disappointment of st. patrick, no doubt.
like for the irish whiskey i could never hold,
which wasn’t the issue. that it could hold me,
which was. shamed by all the irish blood past-
spilt. cursed by all the irish blood that came
before to run in my viney rivers. to stand in the
marshlands of my marrow.

we finished wetting our beaks, then went back
to work. it didn’t bother us. i still wonder why.

maybe it felt a kinship. felt the temperature of
my blood. maybe it saw me for cherokee. maybe
it missed my migratory emerald feathers
i had yet to molt.

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