It wasn't like we were eating the squirrels

we accidentally ran over. Those were the stories we heard about
other states, the ones where banjo was breakfast, where ranges

of mountains conjured generations
of Confederates
                                                                   (dead and moaning).

We were all camellia, box turtle, and the occasional
pelican. Sand between webbing, witches

             beard for weaves, but mostly box
             stores, 5-lane highways, 35 minutes

from friends of friends who ripped the legs
off frogs two at a time to preserve

jump-ability. In school (it was private)
             demerits were served
(entrée or dessert) for even thinking

                              these things.

We were raised
acorns below bicycle,
balloon between spokes

                              the thrill of mimicry.  The sound of what sounded
                              like motorcycle—buzzing like bee, like danger.

The swamp (First Landing) we explored on field
trips. Cyprus knees lifted a slick skirt, revealing

nothing but darkness, a bed for water

                              moccasin, cottonmouth snakes—names
                              to dissolve below tongue as the myth

of anything, as though we might resurrect
something close to a dragon, not smoke-filled or bent

on bringing us closer
to Jesus the Christ

                   but Jesús the foreign
                   exchange student, all picante

and lips to rival Julian whose wine
blessed us as much

as the idea of France could.
To say the swamp was the color

              of tannin would be too much when
              we didn't know what tannin was

when wine was something
to be had in mason jars, tea

              iced and artificial. We weren't

                             looking for snakes or anything
                             except for Robert trying to peek

              up Kathryn's skirt, which wasn't much
of a skirt—a band all sticky and time-held—a watch

              that went on ticking with the pulse
              of what kept the boys calibrated, close.

We didn't think.

We were young, we were the South risen, continuing to rise.




Click here to listen to Natasha Kochicheril Moni reading "It wasn't like we were eating the squirrels"




Natasha Kochicheril Moni, a recent editor for Crab Creek Review, writes and resides in the Bay Area. Three of her poetry manuscripts have been semi-finalists for competitions through Black Lawrence Press. Her writing appears regularly in various journals, including Indiana Review, Main Street Rag, Verse, Rattle, and Santa Fe Writers Project.