You Knew What I Was When You Picked Me Up

You Knew What I Was When You Picked Me Up

Don’t carry the snake up the freakin’
mountain, kids. Even if he asks nice.
Even if he is old, if he squints at you
like your cat does. Don’t tell him
your name. If he says your mom sent
him, ask him for the password. If he
doesn’t say hamburger hamburger,
get out of Dodge. Don’t look like you
are alone. Hint that your parents are
near, just not available. He doesn’t need
your help. He can cross the river fine.
He can rock climb fine. Your backpack
is not a snake carrying case. His fangs
can get at your skin through canvas,
through leather, through denim. If he
says his fangs are dentures, he’s lying.
If he says his venom’s all dried up,
he’s lying. He might tell you that
humans are his favorite. That he
once had a little boy who was his
friend. They would hike up hills
and go swimming together, snake
riding zipped up in the chest of
the boy’s hooded sweatshirt, snake
resting little snake chin on the zipper.
Even if he says he’s not a rattlesnake,
he could be. Even if you shake him
hard and don’t hear a thing. Trust
your fear, kids. It’s not enough to
leave him once you’ve found him.
He’s gonna keep talking to you in
that smooth, scaly voice, telling you
it’s ok, he doesn’t want to hurt you,
he just wants to sunbathe. Even as a
snakelet, he is dangerous. We are
not trying to scare you. You need to
hear this. There are snakes everywhere.
Even a baby snake is a snake. Don’t
let him talk. You don’t want to get bit.