Glass

Glass


by Connie Voisine


for R. Voisine



His father, two brothers, and me, we turned off our saws
for a rest of water and cake. Thirsty, he stopped, walked over
and the loader’s back gate yawned and slipped it
catch, threw him down onto a fresh stump, still
that pink-white wet. I scooped him up. Blood
fell on the path, my arms. He asked to walk by himself,
and I let him, my hands tried not to slip on his shoulders.
When we got to camp, he said
Still, I’m thirsty, and the cook and foreman, they ran
for water. He took it carefully so he wouldn’t drop
and break it. He drank what they gave him. The water poured
out the bottom of his jaw and struck his chest
while the saws stopped in the woods.


Posted over on Ploughshares