A Snake in the Hand

Photo: (c) Jamie K. Reaser

My parents decapitated every snake

they saw. I remember watching severed

heads and severed bodies writhing,

separately,

in the grass. The mouth would open and

close, open and close. It was pink inside.

Maybe, black.

When I was old enough to read field guides,

my parents got in trouble. Big trouble.

According to the books, there were no

venomous snakes where we lived. None.

Every single species was harmless. Actually,

they did good things.

I was not happy.

I laid down the law. “You aren’t allowed to

kill any more snakes!” My declaration was

non-negotiable and backed by facts. Plenty.

That was the day that I learned to stop

trusting everything adults said and did.

The next snake that I encountered was

a garter snake – a large female. I reached

down and picked her up, gently placing the

fingers of my right hand behind her narrow

head and supporting her sleek body with

my left hand, just like the books said to do.

Then, I went to find my parents.

I was told that ‘it’ was not coming into the

house. Ever. But, I was given a playpen-sized

box that an appliance had arrived in earlier

that week.

The snake and I spent most of that day

on the back patio in that box with grass

that I pulled and worms that I caught.

She ate a big one. It was still wriggling

when it disappeared into the universe

inside her.

I learned a lot about snakes that day,

like how easy they are to love.

I let her go.

And, the next day, I went down to the

brook that ran patiently behind the house

– Harrison Brook –

where I knew northern watersnakes

lived in holes at the top of clay banks.

I waded in waist deep, causing water

to separate at my left hip and embrace

me before flowing onward, and waited for

them to swim by – going to or from their

streamside apartments. When they came

my way, swimming, I’d put my hands in the

water under their long undulating bellies

and gently lift them up. Then, I’d get

bitten. It never hurt much, but it did

draw blood. Sometimes.

I did this again and again, until they

trusted my particular touch. Then, I’d sit

with one or two on the sandy shoal at

the turn in the creek and just look at them

and talk to them. I think they said things

to me too, but I don’t remember

what, exactly.

All demons can be befriended this way.

The snake in my hand, right now, is a lovely

ringneck, steel gray with a golden belly and

collar. She’s silky smooth and elegant,

looped around my thumb and forefinger.

I relate to scales in much the same way that

religious people relate to beads. Holding her

is an act of prayer. But, what is the

prayer? This is my question. I think that it is

a good one.

I think, perhaps, I’m still praying for those

decapitated snakes. Or, maybe, I’m praying

for people. Decades have passed. I’m still

clear about who is harmless. But, it seems,

much of the world is not.

~ Jamie K. Reaser, Author

Published in "Conversations with Mary: Words of Attention and Devotion"

Winner of the Nautilus Book Award silver medal for poetry

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