Some ex­pe­ri­ence re­quired

The Iowa Review - - BOB HICOK -

When I tried to kill my­self in a field, a horse wan­dered over and stared at me, a brown horse with brown eyes— and that look­ing is what re­mains alive— not the taste of the pills— not the rea­sons why the pills— but that big brown head and that big brown look­ing down—big brown round look­ing down—so when a kid’s in my of­fice talk­ing-talk­ing or poem-talk­ing of off­ing her­self, as hap­pens ir­reg­u­larly reg­u­larly, that horse’s eyes are there too— mak­ing the mo­ment nat­u­ral, if not good— and some­times I tell the kid about the horse, the look­ing, the pills, the tree I put my back against and waited to be gone—when usu­ally the kid stares at me in a way I won­der if I stared at the horse, happy to be seen in the con­text of era­sure, to have the wish for van­ish­ing met by the pulse that lives in a gaze— mak­ing sui­cide just a thing I keep in my pocket—and can show her she can keep in hers with­out tak­ing out— just touch from time to time, like the stone I picked up forty years ago and never gave back—mostly smooth but whorled and wor­ried in this one spot for rea­sons a ge­ol­o­gist could ex­plain if I asked, but I’m not go­ing to

Newspapers in English

Newspapers from USA

© PressReader. All rights reserved.