In The Well

 My father cinched the rope,
a noose around my waist,
and lowered me into
the darkness.
 I could taste

my fear.
 It tasted first
of dark, then earth, then rot.

I swung and struck my head
and at that moment got

another then: then blood,
which spiked my mouth with iron.

Hand over hand, my father
dropped me from then to then:

then water.
 Then wet fur,
which I hugged to my chest.

I shouted.
 Daddy hauled
the wet rope.
 I gagged, and pressed

my neighbor's missing dog
against me.
 I held its death
and rose up to my father.

Then light.
 Then hands.
 Then breath.

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