DEEPER INTO THE BACKCOUNTRY

by Mary Ardery 

I was restocking a First-Aid kit when the therapist told me about A—’s suicide.

But the rush the morning prep had to move along. Grab Tylenol packets. Count

bags of lentils. Remind everyone to pee before climbing into the van. Then out

in the woods the group moved like one body. Snaking through the trails telling

riddles singing songs. How could she be dead when I still remembered the sound

of her snoring beside me? That strange whistle soft and high-pitched. The group

went quiet with exertion on the first uphill. Just the thud of footsteps the clang

of billy cans. She’d slept wrapped in a tarp so we’d hear rustling when she moved.

Every toss every turn every strong gust of wind. All night I’d watched her chest

rise and fall. Now my own labored breathing grew loud in my ears. Hallelujah

the sound of her snores. Now we trudged deeper into the backcountry. Relentless

how life goes on. I glanced behind us. Saw nothing but trees.

Mary Ardery was born and raised in Bloomington, IN. Her work appears in Beloit Poetry Journal, Best New Poets 2021, Poet Lore, Prairie Schooner, Fairy Tale Review, Missouri Review’s “Poem of the Week,” and elsewhere. She earned a BA from DePauw University and an MFA from Southern Illinois University-Carbondale, where she won an Academy of American Poets Prize. You can visit her at maryardery.com.