| My ex-lover received it at seventeen
skiing the steep slope at Wintergreen called Devil’s Elbow. The early snowmelt along the Blue
Ridge had slipped the white limb of a birch through the crust, jutted that camouflaged tip
into the center of the trail. He hit it, full speed, flipped over his ski poles. One of them split
his vocal cords with its aluminum point. He sprawled in the snow, his pink throat skewered like Saint
Sebastian or the raw quiver of his Greek father’s peppered lamb kebobs. The doctors didn’t let him speak
for a year and when he finally tried his choirboy voice had gravel in it. His tenor had a bloody
birch limb in it, had a knife in it, had a whole lower octave clotted in it, had a wound and a wound’s
cracked whisper in it. The first time I heard him sing in his blues band, five years after the accident,
I told him his smoked rasp sounded exactly like Tom Waits. Like my grandfather
sixty years since the iron lung. I couldn’t believe a growl like that crawled up from the lips
of a former Catholic schoolboy. But as he shut off the halogen overhead—leaving only the ultraviolet
of his bedside’s black light—he stroked my cheek, crooned, Goodnight, Irene. His teeth and his throat’s
three-inch scar glowed a green neon.   Copyright © 2016 Anna Journey. Used with permission of the author. | 
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