I.
In this county, drownings abound. Maybe it’s because, in this town alone, there’s a lake the length of a football field and a river that runs less than a mile from here. Or maybe it’s because everyone’s poor, and parents are too busy working the railroads to pay much attention to their kids. And your brother always insists that you two raised yourselves, and maybe he’s right. You rode your rusted bikes and climbed trees while your father worked the fields and your mother drank her mint juleps, trying to numb the bruises that bloomed, the ones you learned to ignore, even when you had to help her out of the tub because she was so sore. Summer after summer, you made your own fun at the local lake, dunking and playing Marco Polo past the deep drop-off. You still remember the day you didn’t notice one less person hollering Polo! till you got out and grabbed your clothes and Hughie wasn’t there to claim his new blue-jeans. That was only a year after your sister drowned, but this time, the death wasn’t your fault. Right? You were just a girl. And maybe you should fear water like you do fire. It’s done more damage than flames—at least to those in this town. Mary Beth was so desperate to die that she drowned herself easy. All it took was a few stones in her pockets and a desire to reach the silt you were all so desperate to touch, daring each other to submerge twenty-feet below the water’s surface and retrieve a handful of lakescum to prove your impressive feat. You were just kids, trying to prove you could fight off death, could forget your eardrums ready to burst. Weird to think you swam for a week without knowing where Mary went. Her mother thought she may have run off with a boy, but you doubted it. Her eyes were Texas apart, and her flat feet did her no favors. When her bloated body finally floated to the surface, you learned the truth: Life is lethal. So is death. So is the water you want. And you’ve learned to live with it.
II.
In this county, drownings abound. Maybe it’s because, in this town alone, there’s a lake the length of a football field and a river that runs less than a mile from here. Or maybe it’s because everyone’s poor, and parents are too busy working the railroads to pay much attention to their kids. And your brother always insists that you two raised yourselves, and maybe he’s right. You rode your rusted bikes and climbed trees while your father worked the fields and your mother drank her mint juleps, trying to numb the bruises that bloomed, the ones you learned to ignore, even when you had to help her out of the tub because she was so sore. Summer after summer, you made your own fun at the local lake, dunking and playing Marco Polo past the deep drop-off. You still remember the day you didn’t notice one less person hollering Polo! till you got out and grabbed your clothes and Hughie wasn’t there to claim his new blue-jeans. That was only a year after your sister drowned, but this time, the death wasn’t your fault. Right? You were just a girl . And maybe you should fear water like you do fire. It’s done more damage than flames—at least to those in this town. Mary Beth was so desperate to die that she drowned herself easy. All it took was a few stones in her pockets and a desire to reach the silt you were all so desperate to touch, daring each other to submerge twenty-feet below the water’s surface and retrieve a handful of lakescum to prove your impressive feat. You were just kids, trying to prove you could fight off death, could forget your eardrums ready to burst. Weird to think you swam for a week without knowing where Mary went. Her mother thought she may have run off with a boy, but you doubted it. Her eyes were Texas apart, and her flat feet did her no favors. When her bloated body finally floated to the surface, you learned the truth: Life is lethal. So is death. So is the water you want. And you’ve learned to live with it.
Despy Boutris is published or forthcoming in American Poetry Review, Copper Nickel, Colorado Review, The Adroit Journal, Prairie Schooner, Palette Poetry, Third Coast, Raleigh Review, Diode, The Indianapolis Review, and elsewhere. Currently, she teaches at the University of Houston and serves as Assistant Poetry Editor for Gulf Coast. Find Despy at @itsdbouts and despyboutris.com
