A dog fell down a well, and here
a boy has to help his father retrieve it.
In the Well
Andrew Hudgins
My father cinched the rope,
a noose around my waist,
and lowered me into
the darkness. I could taste
my fear. It tasted first
of dark, then earth, then rot.
I swung and struck my head
and at that moment got
another then: then blood,
which spiked my mouth with iron.
Hand over hand, my father
dropped me from then to then:
then water. Then wet fur,
which I hugged to my chest.
I shouted. Daddy hauled
the wet rope. I gagged, and pressed
my neighbor's missing dog
against me. I held its death
and rose up to my father.
Then light. Then hands. Then breath.
first published in The Southern Review, 2001
Volume 37, Number 2, Spring 2001
Copyright 2001 by Andrew Hudgins.
All rights reserved.
Reproduced with permission (click for permissions information).
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