A journal of narrative writing.
Widower at Perril Falls

Listen to “Widower at Perril Falls”
read by Jonathan H. Scott

He shimmies the elm over Perril Falls, To tempt the gorge, investigate the yearn Of gravity. The river-bed is dry— Licked only by a trickle from the spring. At thoughts of years in millions, he dizzies, Holds tighter to his limb. The forest soughs In waves, draws his eyes to the distance. Above a scribbled line of evergreens, A water-tower bulges. He wonders who, Right this second, stands beneath a faucet. Perhaps that Emily is showering . . . His waitress from the other day Who recommended clams, who topped his tea— A breast against his neck. Was it perfume Or soap that made her smell of hyacinth? Is the water getting cold and soon She’ll step out shivering? A shadow longs Into the east across a swatch of moss. The laces of his canvas shoes Are breezy—welter-weighted pendulums Not harassed by the tock of time, not tied In bows to tongues. Easing his grip, he hums. Beneath the gauze of a settling fog, The gash of the red-clay gorge is fading.