Reckoning

Issue 35 • Spring 2017 • Poetry

A margarita mixed
with an hour in a hot tub.

The man who raped me lit
from the underwater lights, tugging

my roommate onto his lap,
fondling her breasts. Woodsmoke

from somewhere. The sound
of birds. I started to feel

lightheaded. Warning signs
would lecture not to mix alcohol

with a hot tub, not to stay in too long,
not to swim unattended.

But there were no signs.
I stumbled from tub to pool,

curled my toes around the ledge.
Early April. Highs never above 50.

I threw myself into the pool.
Water that’s cold enough

will stop a heart, and maybe
that’s what I wanted then.

Instead maybe it skipped a beat
or two, before quickening, racing,

and I dragged myself out, limbs heavy.
Stumbled home on feet acting more

drunk than they were before puking.
I wanted then to turn my body

inside out, to see the way the blood
moved through my veins, the way

my heart contracted and swelled
and contracted again.

Issue 53 • Spring 2026

Fiction

Poetry

Fiction

Poetry