The Imagined Copperhead

Without intending to hide,

the imagined copperhead

hid on the path ahead,

unseen on bronze leaves, unheard,

and a mortal likelihood   

at every step. This was childhood,

mine, the wood’s jihad   

against a boy who’d

intruded among monkshood,

wasp, tick, and nettles haired

with needles. Scrub brush abhorred

him with a horde

of  welts, bites, and stings, but he’d

never seen a copperhead,

though he’d looked hard

taking, as he’d been ordered, heed.

The snake wasn’t a falsehood,

though, to him. Dread

was his nature, and he hared

through sunlight and shade, head

swiveling for the copperhead

he’d begun to covet, the ballyhooed

killer a camouflaged godhead

on which his inborn faith cohered,

and his priesthood.