I do remember darkness, how it snaked
through the alders, their ashen flanks
in our high-beams the color of stone.
That hollow slap as floodwater hit
the sides of the car. Was the radio on?
Had I been asleep?
Sometimes you have to tell a story
your entire life to get it right.
Twenty-two and terrified, I had married you
but barely knew you. And for forty years
I've told this story wrong. In my memory
you drove right through it, the river
already rising on the road behind us,
no turning around.
But since your illness I recall it
differently. Now that I know it's possible
to lose you, I'm finally remembering
it right. That night,
you threw that car in reverse,
and gunned it. You found us
another way home.
Dear Sacrament by Emily Wall | Sandalwood Poetry Reed Diffuser
Emily Wall is a poet and Professor at the University of Alaska. She has published six books of poetry, and has won two Rasmuson Individual Artist awards, two Juneau Arts & Humanities Council Artist Grants, and an Alaska Literary Award. Emily writes in Douglas, Alaska and she can be found online at www.emily-wall.com.
