Raymond Carver
“Rogue River Jet-Boat Trip, Gold Beach, Oregon, July 4, 1977”
They promised an unforgettable trip,
deer, marten, osprey, the site
of the Mick Smith massacre --
a ma who slaughtered his family,
who burnt his house down around his ears --
a fried chicken dinner.
I am not drinking. For this
you have put on your wedding ring and driven
500 miles to see for yourself.
This light dazzles. I fill my lungs
as if these last years
were nothing, a little overnight portage.
We sit in the bow of the jet-boat
and you make small talk with the guide.
He asks where we'rе from, but seeing
our confusion, becomes
confused himsеlf and tells us
he has a glass eye and we
should try to guess which is which.
His good eye, the left, is brown, is
steady of purpose, and doesn’t
miss a thing. Not long past
I would have snagged it out
just for its warmth, youth, and purpose,
and because it lingers on your breasts.
Now, I no longer know what's mine, what
isn't. I o longer know anything except
I am not driking -- though I’m still weak
and sick from it. The engine tarts.
The guide attends the wheel.
Spray rises and falls on all sides
as we head upriver.