I'm writing about sea snakes, which are among the most venomous snakes in the world.
I've gotten stuck on the word "fang," and worse, it's plural, "fangs." It's a little F-word, something that for a laugh you would name your fluffy pet rabbit. This is Fang Angora.
It starts with an f as in friendly and ends with a g as in gosh and yet, fangs. I'm going get my fangs into you.
It implies a takeover. Like adolescence, which is a thing that's happening to my son. A smelling, hair-making coup d'etat. A velvet revolution.
It will intoxicate my son. He will love it. It will poison him. He will despair. But out into the world is where he is going. It frightens me. All the things that can happen as the baby sea turtle waddles like an innocent down the beach toward the sea. We've seen the nature shows.
So we had the sex drugs and alcohol talk.
Afterwards, I said brightly, "Do you have any questions?" putting on my There Are No Questions That Will Embarrass Me face.
He said, "Why would anyone do that?"
"Do what? What part?" I said, my big bright smile like a Bat Signal of Ally; Safe Person, Safe Place.
"Any part, Mom," he said, "Any of what you're taking about."