Near the driveway
my son & I pull up
moss beds. We dig
along the green row
of glass bottles enclosing
the garden, & finally
feel a hunch of luck
after spotting a large rock,
glowing with yellow
flowers that have fallen
from the guayacan.
I let my son feel like
he’s doing most of the heavy
lifting until the rock
is steady at 90 degrees.
But instead of finding
earthworms, we encounter
a coiled snake––a viper
as disturbed as my son
is transfixed, already
in a position to strike.
My son loves a hunt,
& he, too, is ready to attack.
He says, papá, I’m going
to kill it with my hands,
& with urgency,
I step in front of him
& try to explain
this is very different
from the imaginary
wolves we track at dusk.
But to him, it’s not.
To him, it’s all the same.