by Taylor Graham

Last Sunday at the swimming hole –
picnics, sun and beer,
one swimmer under.
Two days later
found him beached just below
the bedrock gorge, the rapids.
Bleached mannequin.
September’s sweet human scent
of death.
Wet-slick rocks to get him out.
Shoulders, legs in rigor, a stiff raft.
Black-and-yellow butterfly
feeding at the eyes. Overripe.
Hiking out, dust in our mouths.
Deputy swapped dead
jokes, forensic oddities.
Nothing personal.
Glad to be alive.

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