My Brother, After a Snakebite

Capon Bridge, West Virginia, 2017

I always picture his feet:

the wet river-shoes

dragging mud up the shore,

kicking up trail dust

to warn our parents

of the two twin punctures, snake unseen,

that had pierced my ankle

(I, cutting through rapids

on the back of

our cousin’s kayak) –

how he took off, hotfooted

down the riverbank,

just in case

he could get there before us –

he who feared fangs

as a child, who once refused

to touch the water,

who hadn’t believed at first

in the blood

that dripped onto my inner tube,

who hadn’t believed at first

that the venom

could be anywhere

near his eldest

sister’s veins.