The Sand Hill Review               http://www.sandhillreview.org 2011

Getting Away

That fall, we pitched

a tent in Montana

bear country for two weeks.

Every night, whether we made love

or not, you slipped your rifle

between our two bodies.

I dreamed of bear paws—awkward

as children’s hands, innocent-looking

as they swiped open my skull—

and woke, face pressed to the steel snout

of the gun we had warmed

with our breath by morning.

You were sober mostly that trip,

didn’t even stagger as you hoisted

our cooler up a tree to safety.

But I had already seen you

reeking and fiery enough to fracture

furniture with just your hands

or to open holes in the walls

with the pointed toes

of your best boots

when you were mad at me.

I had held you when booze was

a sudden blow to your head

and you fell asleep mid-sob,

your hard body gone

flaccid in my arms.

Afternoons in Montana,

you fished downstream a ways,

and I lay naked on a flat boulder

in the middle of the river.

From there, I watched the water,

its insistent fingers

altering the shape of the stone

forever with a relentless,

eroding caress.

Francesca Bell