my father was a ding dang hero

coming in hot with his rifle

can you get him for us? 

he’s eating up our chickens

oh Mylanta, he was a big boi 

tucked away in a limestone cave

I could see his slick profile 

between boulders and chicken feathers 

he was just making an honest living 

honesty, by the way, is a sacrifice some of us make

it can get you straight up murdered 

in the sunshine beside a waterfall 

could be the most beautiful day 

the one you die on—

looking into the barrel of a shotgun 

Lord, I know it’s something awful to say

but it’s how big black beautiful snakes 

live in Rural Appalachia

there’s always a small child watching you die 

sees your body slink in the burly hand of a pretty nice father

looks at your honest blood drip between his honest fingers 

he holds your deadness over the edge of a splendid waterfall

somewhere between the Clinch Mountains and a road 

named Little Sycamore Holler

do you want to touch him before 

I toss him over? 

a little kid recently told me I am

a good person for liking snakes 

now that I think about it, I suppose he meant

some of us see ourselves in snakes 

some of us see ourselves in our father’s hand

Chelsie Blair Nunn (they/them) is an artist and educator working in Knoxville, TN. They receive regular citations from the city for an overgrown lawn. I do it for the snakes.