1
There’s no easy way to tell this story.
An alarm clock, a water hole, the feel of night setting in. My boots held to the riverbed
like a catfish stuck sucking on the bayou’s bottom.
And then the feel of the water’s rise above my knees
or thighs, or waist, or chest, or my neck, kept afloat with duck decoys,
without slowing down, without hearing the sound
of the leftover shells I shot off hoping that the game warden might hear,
that the sun might fear coming down.
2
I want to tell you this story without having to say:
I went hunting alone just to prove something.
She didn’t love me.
I didn’t mean to get hurt,
but the water filling my hip waders didn’t leave me much choice.
I want to tell you this story without having to be in it:
Steven in the sunk waders. Steven in the bayou, alone again.
Steven in the helicopter, under fluorescent lights, his hands the color of blackberry jam.
My stomach’s sharp knocking sounds like a radiator coming alive.
3
Her shoulder shields the sun from my eyes and the cold doesn’t stop.
She covers my body with her body but the cold
doesn’t stop. The smell of the hospital, iodine mixed with bleach, then the IV—
There, on the sheets, slipping under the blankets,
trying to tighten them around my body like I was a child again, the cold
in between sealed up—
Bound tight enough to make the blood begin
to change its course, setting the skin
alive again, circling and circling the cold in my hands.
There’s no easy way to tell this story.
An alarm clock, a water hole, the feel of night setting in. My boots held to the riverbed
like a catfish stuck sucking on the bayou’s bottom.
And then the feel of the water’s rise above my knees
or thighs, or waist, or chest, or my neck, kept afloat with duck decoys,
without slowing down, without hearing the sound
of the leftover shells I shot off hoping that the game warden might hear,
that the sun might fear coming down.
2
I want to tell you this story without having to say:
I went hunting alone just to prove something.
She didn’t love me.
I didn’t mean to get hurt,
but the water filling my hip waders didn’t leave me much choice.
I want to tell you this story without having to be in it:
Steven in the sunk waders. Steven in the bayou, alone again.
Steven in the helicopter, under fluorescent lights, his hands the color of blackberry jam.
My stomach’s sharp knocking sounds like a radiator coming alive.
3
Her shoulder shields the sun from my eyes and the cold doesn’t stop.
She covers my body with her body but the cold
doesn’t stop. The smell of the hospital, iodine mixed with bleach, then the IV—
There, on the sheets, slipping under the blankets,
trying to tighten them around my body like I was a child again, the cold
in between sealed up—
Bound tight enough to make the blood begin
to change its course, setting the skin
alive again, circling and circling the cold in my hands.
| His Accident By Sara Slaughter |
| Contributor's Bio |
Sara Slaughter is a native of Pine Bluff, Arkansas. She is currently enrolled in the Warren
Wilson MFA Program for Writers, and her Sundays are devoted to God and football.
Wilson MFA Program for Writers, and her Sundays are devoted to God and football.
Photo By Jeb Livingston
| The Honey Land Review Fall 2008 Volume 1, Issue 1 |
Copyright © 2008 The Honey Land Review All rights reserved.
All content contained within this site is protected by copyright laws.
Unauthorized use of graphics or literary material is strictly prohibited.
All content contained within this site is protected by copyright laws.
Unauthorized use of graphics or literary material is strictly prohibited.