Redneckid
All the seasoned men putting their dirt-farm stamp on me
claim: “If you’re scared of a horse, then you’re stupid.
If you ain’t scared of a horse, you’re stupid. Stand in there.
But a dog: always gotta take an attacking dog on, best as you can.”
My circle of menfolk alarm whenever they might appear exposed,
or worse—stupid. A thousand pounds of freight on hooves
can easily dent you and dim your lights if the beast smells
summer-sweating fear deep in your skin. They’re right on that;
listening to crusty animal-tutelage, I’ve grown—learning to beat down
hurricane-sirens while hard-dealing. But I’ve exceeded
those old skills; I handle and calm rearing horses
as if harnessing raw power is my unruffled business.
In “My Better’s” lesser stories of repute: if a snarl of dog
decides to lunge, comes catapulting with ancient plans to snatch
and shake a human arm or neck like a grain-thieving rodent—
those same men fail me on managing the worst doggish behavior.
Around the fire circle talks, they’ll shift on hard-stump seats, shake
their heads over the ferocity of wolf-like attacks; horses can brutalize
with a beautiful fury, a dance of spine and game-mind; mongrels
and mutts bring it bounding and ugly in a single-thought dogfight.
My bold-brash elders have internalized the claw-pawing, barking
loud as a shotgun, rows of teeth snapping for face and ears. The ones
wearing stitch scars slink back, turn quiet, allowing those with skins
less disrupted to illuminate what sorts of houndish weapons
might prove handy in a pinch: battle cry-volume, steely tools, maybe
the conquering swing of a fallen oak limb with some heart still in it.
Their postures and eyes anxiously speak—throats snarl in currish warning,
unnatural rumbles. They hate baring the flank of naked truth
when it comes down to what truly scares them. Better listen to us,
you better listen to us. Tongues dryly lick at canines. The instincts
they want me to sink my young teeth into: Us, we’re untamed. Us.
This fighting nature, it’s how we live. So—don’t be stupid.
Bears and bulls, feral cats and wolves—that whole lot blunder and trespass
through surveys of woods and yards and fields, hungry for our nature’s
survival test of sunshine, drought and mud, insects and meat, shelter
and domain. Don’t be scared, stupid. Know what can be done to you.
Howl. Lunge. Lock it in. Shake that vexing fear inside you like a pest.
Live, torn and undomesticated—live to tell it. Don’t be scared stupid,
back and forth, don’t be scared stupid. I scare them, they scare me.
Scott T. Hutchison’s poetry has appeared in Floyd County Moonshine, The Georgia Review, and The Southern Review. He grew up in Ashland, Virginia, and attended Virginia Tech for undergraduate work. His second book of poetry, Moonshine Narratives, is available from Main Street Rag Publishing. New work is forthcoming in Naugatuck River Review, Pine Mountain Sand & Gravel, Mobius, Whiskey Tit, Tampa Review, and Slipstream. He currently lives in the Belknap Mountains of New Hampshire.
