Jacob Boyd

The Lifeline

We had spooled the hose up for winter,
raked the leaves, and scooped the gutters.
We were just baling out the rain barrel
bucket by bucket, leaning into it
when like paleobiologists we began
disappearing into the past, tipping
over the rim to where the smells lived.
The thing was bog-like in its layers.
Eggs and larvae at the surface, slick
as a wet dream; below that, a shore,
water sloshing in the bottom of a boat,

woodsmoke, rapture, rasp of whiskers,
a nightcrawler cast in Grandpa’s ear,
ice cream, forgiveness, a fire, a blade
slipped tail to gills, a blue-gray fish
split open and spilling onto gut-soaked
newspaper. We slid inside the barrel
and waited. When nothing happened,
we slept. When we woke, we nosed
without words, mouths, or missions
against moss-streaked white plastic.
We survived on sniffing the familiar.

Beyond the garage and naked limbs,
stars arced. Rarely sun. We argued
over whether Orion faced us or faced
away. Even the needy trees panhandling
for light forgot who we were. But then,
one night, a hawk clutching a mouse
like a coin purse appeared, tipped
its shambolic head, and tore from
the furred body a long, wet ribbon—
viscera it dangled down to us. This
steaming, slimy rope. We grabbed hold.

Back to Issue IX…