Lumberjacks Pound Their Dead into the Ground
By Michael Mark
At first Gary called her name, crooned it, like when dinner was ready, then he turned off the radio and leaned toward her in the passenger seat to see if he could hear Gladys breathe, held his breath so he could be sure. By Pine Bluff, he turned on the warning blinkers, and pulled to the side of I-80, shut off the engine, and put his ear near her open mouth, his cheek on her side, before he pronounced her dead to himself. And then - what else could he do, Nebraska in December, the ground frozen - he went on driving, radio off. After some time, maybe it was the familiarity of I-80, the comfort of the landscape’s monotony they drove together on their annual vacation for 13 years, the memories taking over, her bakery smell, he forgot she was dead and he switched on the radio, started singing. Then he got the sense something wasn’t right with Gladys. He looked at her, curled up, said her name, slowed down, leaned toward her, still not sure, thinking maybe he made up that he knew she was dead, the daze of all the miles playing tricks on him. He put the blinkers on, pulled over, still on I-80, this time in Cheyenne, rested his head on her side, and kissed her, knowing. He looked out at the hard land and drove on. This kept happening. He’d drive away thinking about Gladys, happy pictures in his head, then somewhere in the flat miles he’d be singing until he’d get that bad sense. He’d pull over, and realize, almost like it was the first time. And he’d drive on, and he’d forget. This is Gary’s story and he should be the one telling it but I just love it.
About the Author:
Michael Mark’s poetry has been published or forthcoming in Alaska Quarterly Review, Copper Nickel, Michigan Quarterly Review, The Southern Review, The New York Times, The Sun, Waxwing, The Poetry Foundation's American Life in Poetry, Verse Daily, and other places. He’s the author of two books of stories, Toba and At the Hands of a Thief (Atheneum).
About Weekly Flash Prose and Poetry:
CutBank Online features one work of flash prose or prose poetry every Monday. Submissions are free and open year-round. Send us your best work of 750 words or less at https://cutbank.submittable.com/submit.