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.