It was early morning for many hours and then the mallards in the red sky
just stopped showing up.
And there, in the distance, not ambulance sirens,
but an old Dodge Ram engine,
with a wench up front and fog lights brighter than foxfire at daybreak.
The door swung wide: rough sideburns, worn Wranglers, a cold .38
holstered at his waist
and he radios, Sheriff, we got a live one,
the water’s crawled up to his nose overnight.
Can you set a chopper down just west of the bayou?
Here is where he must’ve gone in, here's the footprints, the broke twigs.
Here’s the edge of the slackwater pond, new mud on the bank
covered from the water’s rise.
Here’s the man anchored like a buoy by the water in his waders,
here are the rescue lines, the three rafts
too big for the mud hole,
the blankets that are not blankets but sheets of thin foil,
covering the shaken man in a stranger’s truck bed.
Here he is again, IV fluids pumping through him.
So now he takes a helicopter to the state hospital, the blank stare,
his eyes still burning.
This is the part where he wakes her up to go hunting again,
this is the part where she’s trying to get out of bed.
I’ll just go without you, he says. I’ll just go
without you.
This is the place, she says to herself, where the blame begins,
his eyes reveal a longer night—no moon.
Meanwhile,
there is something on the window sill above the kitchen sink trying hard
to get her attention—
a white gold band, nothing fancy, with an inscription on the inside—
She can see him taking it off to do dishes, splashing
water all over the linoleum,
how it makes her so mad, how he never thinks to put the damn thing back on,
his short bare fingers reaching for her at night.
He’s laughing at her while he picks at her mom’s old colander with his pocketknife
as if he’s saying that this is
the last night she’ll have spaghetti for a while because come tomorrow, they’ll have
to chase the cold out of his hands with two weeks worth of bandages.
The radio cuts off, the dogs growl,
and the wind outside dies down, and the sky’s not red.
He sets his alarm in the guest room.
Here is the hallway between them and here is her bedroom door and here’s the reason for her
to sleep in, to leave him be,
his body temperature sliding with the water’s rise.
just stopped showing up.
And there, in the distance, not ambulance sirens,
but an old Dodge Ram engine,
with a wench up front and fog lights brighter than foxfire at daybreak.
The door swung wide: rough sideburns, worn Wranglers, a cold .38
holstered at his waist
and he radios, Sheriff, we got a live one,
the water’s crawled up to his nose overnight.
Can you set a chopper down just west of the bayou?
Here is where he must’ve gone in, here's the footprints, the broke twigs.
Here’s the edge of the slackwater pond, new mud on the bank
covered from the water’s rise.
Here’s the man anchored like a buoy by the water in his waders,
here are the rescue lines, the three rafts
too big for the mud hole,
the blankets that are not blankets but sheets of thin foil,
covering the shaken man in a stranger’s truck bed.
Here he is again, IV fluids pumping through him.
So now he takes a helicopter to the state hospital, the blank stare,
his eyes still burning.
This is the part where he wakes her up to go hunting again,
this is the part where she’s trying to get out of bed.
I’ll just go without you, he says. I’ll just go
without you.
This is the place, she says to herself, where the blame begins,
his eyes reveal a longer night—no moon.
Meanwhile,
there is something on the window sill above the kitchen sink trying hard
to get her attention—
a white gold band, nothing fancy, with an inscription on the inside—
She can see him taking it off to do dishes, splashing
water all over the linoleum,
how it makes her so mad, how he never thinks to put the damn thing back on,
his short bare fingers reaching for her at night.
He’s laughing at her while he picks at her mom’s old colander with his pocketknife
as if he’s saying that this is
the last night she’ll have spaghetti for a while because come tomorrow, they’ll have
to chase the cold out of his hands with two weeks worth of bandages.
The radio cuts off, the dogs growl,
and the wind outside dies down, and the sky’s not red.
He sets his alarm in the guest room.
Here is the hallway between them and here is her bedroom door and here’s the reason for her
to sleep in, to leave him be,
his body temperature sliding with the water’s rise.
| His Accident, Take Two By Sara Slaughter |
Photo By Patrick Pattamanuch
| The Honey Land Review Fall 2008 Volume 1, Issue 1 |
| 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.
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.