Wednesday, October 9, 2013


Wicked Water

I wanted a way to kill water.
            The river ran like a gray scar, screaming in certain sections where it got caught up by boulders.  Birds fluttered in the tree tops.  A deer poked through a clearing on the other side and cocked its head at me.
It should have beautiful, but it took my breath away for all the wrong reasons.
Ironic, I thought, that Ann had been a swimming sensation in college.  Before we’d married, I loved watching her in the pool, so fluid and controlled, each stroke like glass.  The last time I’d seen her she was surrounded by water, too.  I thought she’d fallen asleep in the tub.  The jets were on, the water churning what must have been gallons of her blood.
Our son never learned to swim.  He came to this river with Jared, who turned out to be his lover.  Jared said they liked to raft to the other side.  It was safe, he assured me, so long as two people paddled.  But then they’d gotten into a fight, my son angry because Jared wouldn’t come out publicly, wouldn’t let them be like any other couple. 
When he dove in, Jared told my son to stop screwing around, to grab the oar, but the current had already caught him.
It would have happened right there, where I’m headed now.
The water bites my skin.  Its liquid limbs tug hard.

I don’t resist at all.  Instead I let rage do the work.  

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