For the Hardest to Reach Places
Rent from DeepDyve- For the Hardest to Reach Places
Cold water and a sharp edge are bestfor skinning chicken. Pulled taught,one slice really, and the rest is justpeeling. That’s how she gets to the meatof it before the kids come in and ruineverything. My wife is a master at it,the way she can tear clean and still leavethe meat on the bone, all those yearsof shaving around the delicate foldsof her knees, careful not to slip.
I try not to think about that now.
I try to keep my head down. That’s whatI’m good at. Like swinging a hammer.Vasectomies are better than tying tubes.Better than relying on the thin skinof condoms where the numbers are stackedagainst a box without a price check. Betterthan relying on a stranger to hurry me backacross an empty parking lot with a sackslapping against my leg, my wife waitingin the car, the motor still running.
I try not to think about that either.
When she slept in the hospital, I didn’tthink about pulse, the machines [End Page 121] that do that anyway, or the bones in her face.I didn’t think about the baby either,the blood, the pressure behind the pushing,the nurse’s talk about strokes and seizures.I didn’t think about the next twoweeks, or the years after that, what diesby the hand or doesn’t. Just condomsand how they are a saddle too thin for hardriding. Simply put. I’m out to pastureif bareback is no longer an option.
Tomorrow I’ll put my balls in someoneelse’s hands and watch as they cut into them.But I can’t talk to my wife about that.I can’t tell her with my limited vocabularythat I know nothing about swinging a razor,not after she’s been stretched between lifeand death while I just stood there.
If muscle memory is anything to rely on,I’m working the narrow strip by mygrandfather’s greenhouse with a rusted pushreel. I find the shortest distance betweentwo points: push down, pull up, repeat.I am neither accomplice nor alibi.That’s not her voice slipping throughthe bathroom door to ask if I’m ok.That’s not her voice shaken from murder.If muscle memory is anything to rely on,the throat can be just as unpredictable.
It’s when she asks if I need help.I forget that a man’s body is the softestof blunt objects, clean up what I canaround the drain and be good at it.I ignore the motives for opportunities [End Page 122] that could just as easily be her facein the mirror. And when she smiles,I lay witness, hand her the toweland lie down on the floor. Becauseshe’s always helped me hide the body. [End Page 123]
Ray McManus is a poet and professor at the University of South Carolina Sumter, where he directs the Center for Oral Narrative. He is the author of three books of poetry: Punch., Red Dirt Jesus, and Driving through the country before you are born. His poetry and prose have appeared in numerous journals and anthologies.
