Shawna Hogan



Because we were trespassing,
I had to stifle a yelp
when my ankle twisted
under the fence;
instead
I squeezed his outstretched
arm until
the stronger throbs diminished,
and we could hook
ourselves together to
survey the field stretched
by dark.
No woodchuck,
no deer, no mouse.
The hill was like a clean bed
prepared solely for us,
which we trusted
to keep watch while
we dropped into its center,
limbs coiled tight
in singular exhaustion.
Then, sometime in the night,
the sounds that woke us:
Ch-ch-ch-ch. Ch-ch-ch-ch…
What does a rattlesnake sound
like again, I couldn’t get myself
to say out loud although we both answered
anyway, hugging like honeymooners
their first night-- the ageless trick, that inborn
reflex against all that might intrude.