Volume 55, Issue #2 (August 2024)

Table of Contents
Arkansas Review: A Journal of Delta Studies  

 (formerly Kansas Quarterly) 

 Arkansas Review , Vol. 56, No. 2 (August 2025) 

 

 

 

 

 Nightriding and the Law: An Arkansas Odyssey ................................. 83 by William H. Pruden III 

 So-So Grocery (poetry) ......................................................... 100 by Michael Spence 

 Cajuns Count (poetry) .......................................................... 102 by Carol Parris Krauss 

 Ms Kirke of Hickory Canyon (fiction) ........................................... 103 by Peter Geier 

 The Trade (poetry) ............................................................. 107 by Kevin Brown 

 Patti & Sam (fiction) .......................................................... 108 by Justin McKee 

 A Strange Dwelling (poetry) .................................................... 113 by Bridget Starnes 

 Mesmerize (fiction) ............................................................ 114 by Dalton Sikes 

 Survivor (poetry) .............................................................. 122 by Anne Richey 

 Learning to Tell Time with Elvis (fiction) ..................................... 124 by Harvey Huddleston 

 Poems (in memory of Richard Wooten) ............................................ 133 

Richard Wooten: 1952-2024 

The Beaten Track 

The Reunion by Floyd Collins 

 The Buzzards Come Off the Road (fiction) ....................................... 137 by Peter L. Kapp 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 Contributors 

 Kevin Brown has had fiction and poetry published in multiple literary journals, magazines and anthologies. He has won numerous writing competitions and has been nominated for several prizes and awards, including three Pushcart Prizes. 

 Floyd Collins holds an MFA in Creative Writing and a PhD in Twentieth-Century Literature from the University of Arkansas. He has authored several volumes of poetry, including My Back Pages: The Teresa Poems (2022). The Living Artifact , a selection of his essay-reviews, appeared in 2021. Most recently Waking Past Midnight: Selected Poems , a career retrospective, was published by Stephen F. Austin State UP in 2023. 

 Malaika Favorite is a visual artist and writer; her poetry publications include Dreaming at the Manor (2014) and Illuminated Manuscript (1991). Malaika also won the 2015 Broadside Lotus Press Naomi Long Madgett Poetry Award for Ascension (2016) and the 2023 April Gloaming Publishing, Moon Meridian Novella Award for her novella The Author Project published in January 2024. She is also the winner of the 2005 Louisiana Literature Prize for Poetry and holds BA and MFA degrees in fine art from Louisiana State University. Her artwork has appeared in numerous exhibitions, outdoor murals, and books and is held in major collections throughout the United States. 

 Peter Geier’s doctor is across the street from Edgar Allan Poe’s grave. He has reported and written features for local, national, and international news publications. He reviews films for http://moompitchers.blogspot.com His published work includes a profile of a Baltimore neighbor in LIGEIA , and a speculative piece in Lumina about a plastic earring figurine that comes to life. He is completing a collection of two dozen short stories set in New York. 

 Gregory Hansen is Professor of Folklore and English at Arkansas State University, where he also teaches in the Heritage Studies PhD Program. He is the author of A Florida Fiddler: The Life and Times of Richard Seaman , and his publications focus on roots music, folklore and language, and public folklore. 

 Harvey Huddleston received his BA in English from The University of Memphis and his Masters in Playwriting from Columbia University in New York. His short fiction has been published in The RavensPerch and Mystery Tribune among many others. 

 A. Jenson is a trans/non-binary writer, artist, and farmer raised in Tennessee and educated in Kansas. Their most recent works can be found in 2024 issues of Door Is A Jar, The B’K, NYU’s Caustic Frolic, and Roi Fainéant . Between long days of cherry harvesting and correcting irrigation lines, they are hard at work on a full length poetry manuscript. You can find them writing and painting on Instagram at @adotjenson. 

 Peter L. Kapp was in the music business for many years. Working with young rock n roll bands, he was always more of the designated driver than a practitioner of the common vices of touring musicians. He lives in New York with his wife of thirty seven years. “The Buzzards Come Off the Road” is the first fictional story he’s had published. 

 Carol Parris Krauss relocated to Virginia after 24 years in Fort Lauderdale. Some venues where she has publications are Louisiana Lit, One Art, Schuylkill Valley Journal, Story South, and Highland Park Poetry . She was selected for Ghost City Press’s 2023 Micro-Chap Summer Series. The Poetry Box released her chapbook, The Old Folks Call It God’s Country (April 2024). Her next book, Mountain. Memory. Marsh. , will be released by Fernwood Press in the summer of 2025. 

 Justin McKee was born and raised in San Mateo, CA, and is currently based in various locations throughout the Western Hemisphere. He previously served as co-Founder/Publisher/Editor-in-Chief/Errand Boy for The Raffish , an offbeat literary journal based in New Orleans, LA, as well as lead ditchdigger, bellhop, farmhand, et al. for assorted ventures in disparate locales. For more information, please visit justinmckee.com. 

 William H. Pruden III teaches History and Government at Ravenscroft School in Raleigh, North Carolina. He earned an AB in History from Princeton University, a JD from Case Western Reserve University, and master’s degrees from Wesleyan and Indiana Universities. His career teaching American history and government has spanned over four decades and has been complemented by stints as a legislative assistant at the state and Congressional levels. He has contributed hundreds of articles to encyclopedias and other reference works, as well as chapters to such books as To Can the Kaiser: Arkansas and the Great War (2015), Bullets and Fire: Lynching and Authority in Arkansas, 1840–1950 (2017), The Elaine Massacre and Arkansas: A Century of Atrocity and Resistance, 1819–1919 (2018), and Race, Labor, and Violence in the Delta: Essays to Mark the Centennial of the Elaine Massacre (2022). 

 Matthew P. Rooney received a PhD in anthropology from the University of Florida in 2021 and is one of ten research station archeologists working for the Arkansas Archeological Survey. He has conducted fieldwork in Florida, Mississippi, Alabama, and Arkansas. His research projects tell the stories of Indigenous people and African Americans who lived in the American South, combining archeology with history and cultural anthropology by collaborating with descendant populations. Dr. Rooney is currently the Vice President of Education and President-Elect for Preserve Arkansas, a member of the Board of Trustees for the Arkansas Historical Association, and Associate Editor for the Southeastern Archaeological Conference. 

 Jacob Reecher earned his MFA from the University of New Orleans in 2018. His work has appeared in Tampa Review, Relief, and elsewhere. He lives with his wife in New York City. 

 Anne Richey , a North Carolina native, recently returned to the South after many years of living and teaching in New York City and upstate NY. Much of her first book, Church of the Robin’s Ha-Ha! John Burroughs’ “Natural Religion,” and Other Poems (2017), is derived from her special interest in the Catskills naturalist Burroughs, and in the region itself. Now living in Memphis, TN, she is currently assembling a second book of poems and hoping for her first sighting of an indigo bunting. 

 Dalton Sikes is a West Coast writer, poet, essayist, and former Managing Editor of Silk Road Review . His work has appeared in Shift: A Journal of Literary Oddities, Inscape, Chaotic Merge, and The Heartland Review , among others. Dalton is an Honorable Mention for the 2024 Joy Bale Boone Poetry Prize. His work ranges from dark to delightful through poetry and prose. 

 Michael Spence drove public-transit buses in the Seattle area for thirty years, retiring from that job on Valentine’s Day, 2014. His poems have appeared recently in Alabama Literary Review, Atlanta Review, Catamaran, Louisiana Literature, The New Criterion, North American Review, and The Southern Review . New work is forthcoming in The Hudson Review, Tampa Review, Tar River Poetry, and Terrain . His most recent book, Umbilical (2016), won The New Criterion Poetry Prize. 

 Bridget Starnes is a writer and textile artist who has made northwest Arkansas her home for the past ten years. Originally from northeast Kansas, she attended both Kansas State University and the University of Kansas Medical Center. Her previous work has appeared in 303 Magazine and Reductress . 

 Joe Watson is an Arkansas native and holds a BA from UALR in English. He lives in Little Rock with his wife Lori. 

 Arkansas Review 55.2 (August 2024)

So-So Grocery
By Michael Spence 
 *—New Orleans, 1963* 
 The address—5050 Downman Road— 
I guess inspired Mom to call it that. 
The pocked cinderblock felt gritty when I dragged 
My fingers along a wall, as if the store 
Were painted with a paste of crumbled seashells. 
Whiter than its milk that would go bad 
Before we finished it, the building gleamed 
Bright as a bunker from an arctic war. 
But inside wasn’t cool—just not as hot 
As the steam of this July. Maybe the milk 
Soured my mother on the place. She claimed 
The meat it sold developed unusual hues 
And started to smell soon as she’d unwrap it. 
So she drove to the Piggly-Wiggly, its cold breeze 
Flowing past the bins that glittered like ice. 
 The So-So owner loved the holidays— 
All the holidays. Equality 
Was rare as snow that summer in the South: 
The people living there knew people came 
In different kinds. But in the display window, 
The Uncle Sam who held a firecracker 
Big as an extinguisher stood guard 
With Santa smiling beside an aluminum tree 
Flocked into permanent winter. A turkey stuck 
Mid-strut between them like a mutual pet 
Seemed to peck a patch of jack-o’-lanterns. 
In front of all, as if in command, the crèche. 
 
 
 Arkansas Review 55.2 (August 2024) 
 100 
 
 
 
 My mother frowned: He’s just too lazy to change 
With the seasons. So confused and weird. Nodding, 
I fought to keep from grinning. I thought the owner 
Was right—holidays seemed parceled out 
As if scarce as pardons from the governor 
On TV crime shows. I guessed the owner felt 
Excited like I did on Christmas morning, 
And he could feel that electric every day— 
His store would never cease to celebrate. 
 I first saw Michelle Fernandez in its aisles, 
Her hair and face the light brown of pralines. 
I bought a couple of Yoo-hoo’s for me and her— 
They were cold; so chilly they made us shiver. 
The frosty drinks cost most of my allowance, 
But I liked imagining the chocolate turned 
Michelle browner. Those summer afternoons 
We’d meet at the store and take our bottles out 
To the bench in front. I sipped mine slowly 
To make it last. The day I said, I want you 
To be my girlfriend, she only smiled and talked 
About how hot it was. 
 So-So Grocery 
Never changed when autumn came and Michelle 
Went out with Ronnie Ducrose. I’d still go in 
To check the aisles; any brown-haired girl 
Turned blond or brunette. I quit looking 
At the window and its frozen decorations. 
The cream soda I bought looked plain as water— 
The way a holiday on the calendar 
Looks like any other day. I chugged 
The hissing fizz, letting it fill up my mouth, 
And pressed my lips tight as it scoured my tongue. 
 
 
 Arkansas Review 55.2 (August 2024) 
 101

Learning to Tell Time with Elvis
By Harvey Huddleston 
 
 
 1 
 

I arrived at book club with some wine that
held promise if you could believe that guy behind
the counter. She opened the door with Theo
next to her doing handsprings like St. John
Bosco had performed to become the patron saint
of actors. Then, bending down to calm Theo, she
looked up at me and said, “I’m so sorry about
Herman.” 

Herman, I thought, now where did that
come from? 

A few months ago I was leaving my apart-
ment when I’d seen Herman having trouble get-
ting up to his place on the couch so I’d placed a
box in front. Then on my return, I found that
he’d fallen off the box and his front claws had
stuck in the couch. I freed him but saw that he
couldn’t move his lower body so I lifted him up
to his water bowl on the coffee table. I was en-
couraged when he took some sips but then he
still couldn’t move and as I watched him it be-
came clear that he never would again. 

I made the call and put him in his carrier
and took him out into the fresh air which he’d
always loved. The car came and we went and
when I got back it didn’t seem possible that he
wasn’t with me. I cleaned the apartment as it had
begun to smell from his many bowel leaks that I
hadn’t been able to keep up with. But when it
came to his things, I couldn’t get rid of them all.
His litter scoop still lies on the closet floor, half-
way visible. 

Herman had spent his first few years in an
alley and even though he liked people, the only
way he knew how to play was to lash out with his
claws. He wanted human contact so badly but
something inside him just wouldn’t allow for it
so I knew how much he’d depended on me. I
didn’t know though how much I’d depended on
him. I still see him in the dim light across the
room, peeking at me from around the corner.
He’s there but not really so I’ve tried to get on
with things like everyone else has had to do since
the beginning of time. 

But then our host said she was sorry about
him and she’d said it with such concern and like
it happened only yesterday that I was taken
aback. A wave of joy came over me—not the kind
that makes you stop to take it in but the kind that
propels you forward into the simple act of living.
We opened the wine and the other book club
members arrived and for the rest of that evening
it felt like Herman was there with us. 

I wondered where that joy had come from
and why it had come at the mere mention of his
name. I wondered what might sustain it or if it
could be sustained. Then a theory formed in my
mind. It seemed that time itself had dissolved in
that moment; that is, the distance between now
and then contracted to the point where it van-
ished, leaving only what is and always will be. 
 
 2 
 

It was confusing the way some people would
look at a clock and make a pronouncement like
“I have to be there by eight.” Even my sister who
was only two years older than me could do it. I’d
ask when Howdy Doody was coming on and
she’d answer by just glancing at the clock. It
seemed so natural that I assumed she’d been
born with this power and some like her had it 
 
 
 Arkansas Review 55.2 (August 2024) 
 124 
 
 
 
while others like me didn’t. That was bother-
some but what really had me worried was the
thought that this might be a permanent con-
dition and I’d forever be at her mercy. I decided
to ask. 

“So how did you know it was fifteen minutes
after two?” 

“Because that’s what the clock said.” 

“But how did you know what the clock said?” 

“I looked.” 

“But how did you know what it said?” 

At that she just looked at me. “Oh, you
mean how do I tell time?” 

“Yeah.” 

Now might come the answer I’d been dread-
ing but instead she asked me a question, “You
wanna learn?” 

“... Yeah.” 

“Come on.” 

I followed her to the clock and she said there
were two hands. “The short hand tells the hour
and the long hand tells the minutes so all you
have to do is see how many minutes it is before
or after the hour that the short hand is pointing
to.” Then she told me to tell her what time it was
so I did.

“See? It’s easy.” 

“What’s the skinny hand for?” 

“It’s for seconds but you don’t have to worry
about that.” 

“What does it do?” 

Now she was annoyed. “Sixty seconds make
a minute and sixty minutes make an hour. That’s
all you need to know,” and then she was gone,
leaving me counting the marks around the clock.
But then I realized I didn’t have to count them
because the numbers already said what they were. 

It amazed me that not only did we have
clocks to tell time but I’d never be confused by
one again. I wondered if all those things I didn’t
understand were because no one had explained
them yet. Then I thought that maybe we were
supposed to figure things out for ourselves since
that was how I’d found out about music. 

I knew that music was supposed to make you
feel good but what was it supposed to sound like
and what kind of good feeling was it supposed to
give you? There was Lawrence Welk on TV with
his “champagne music-makers” and bubbles ev-
erywhere. The way he kept smiling I figured his
music was supposed to make you happy but it
didn’t do that for me. Tommy down the block
told me his father said the woman on Lawrence
Welk was so pretty that he wanted to run out in
the street and kiss her. That seemed like a strange
thing for his father to say but even if he did, that
didn’t mean he was any happier and it sure
didn’t explain anything about music. So it re-
mained a mystery until one night on the back
porch. 

I’d sit out there after dark when they’d let
me and on this night I was watching and listen-
ing to the teenagers next door. The teenager who
lived there didn’t pay any attention to me, but I
liked him because of the time he’d walked
around on his hands with his feet up in the air. 

I sat there watching the reds, blues and yel-
lows reflect off their faces. Their faces were all I
could see because the hedge between our yards
cut off everything else below their necks. And
even though I couldn’t see it, I knew a jukebox
was there the way the colored lights kept shifting
and the songs kept changing. 

Then it happened. 

Don’t be cruel, ooh, ooh, ooh, 

To a heart that’s true. 

I don’t want no other love, 

Baby, it’s you I’m thinking of. 

I said to myself, this must be music. And that
was Elvis. I knew about him because he was from
Memphis and had made a big splash on TV. He’s
telling this girl to not be cruel to him and I won-
dered what she’d done that was so cruel but he
never says and then I realized he didn’t have to
 
 
 Arkansas Review 55.2 (August 2024) 
 125 
 
 
 
because no matter how cruel she was, all that
mattered is how much he loves her. 

Then it felt like I’d gone somewhere else and
whenever after that on a hot summer day with
the fan up high and Elvis on the radio, I knew
exactly what I was hearing.
 
 3 
 

After first grade we moved to a bigger house
in the suburbs and right after that Elvis moved
out there too. He was getting more famous and
had enough money to buy anything he wanted
so I guess that house on Audubon was it. We
drove by to see it like everyone else and it wasn’t
much bigger than ours except only Elvis lived
there while our house was for the whole family.
You could tell which one it was by the music
notes stuck on the fence in front. 

It had a swimming pool in the backyard
which we only knew about because of my sister.
Her friend in third grade had invited her over
and it turned out she lived right next door to
Elvis. This friend showed her how she spied on
him through the backyard fence and I imagined
Elvis in his pool with all these girls swimming
around. But then my sister said all he did back
there was work on his motorcycle and it was kind
of boring. 

Pretty soon so many people were driving
down Audubon that his neighbors complained
so Elvis moved to a new house called Graceland
and I wondered what kind of house had its own
name. A picture in the paper showed it with col-
umns and a long driveway curving up to the
house. There were still music notes on the fence
in front but these were big ones on a fancy gate
that closed the driveway off from the street. 

Then he got drafted into the army and I
don’t remember much else from then except lots
of new music coming out. One day I’m walking
past Elvis’s old house and this song called “The
Locomotion” was in my head. It had this grind-
ing horn and felt like a freight train coming with
this girl singer who sounded black and sexy. 
 

Everyone is doing a brand new dance now, 

Come on baby, do the Locomotion. 

Chugga chugga motion now, let’s make a chain
now, 

Come on baby, do the Locomotion. 
 

Then Elvis was out of the army and had
brought back to Memphis with him a young girl
he wasn’t married to. The paper said she’d come
with her father’s blessing and was already en-
rolled in a private school but it was still pretty
weird. Memphians though chose to believe the
best and then I found out this private school was
the same Catholic girls school where my sister
went. My sister said she was nice but didn’t hang
out with them much. A chauffeur dropped her
off in the morning and then picked her up in the
afternoon but that changed one day when she
drove up in a brand new Mustang. 

So with Elvis collecting young girls and no
one thinking about him much, he starts popping
up in the movies. What? I mean I knew he could
sing but who said he could act. You didn’t just
decide one day to start acting and I figured that
had to be especially true for this guy from Humes
High but that’s exactly what Elvis did because
then he was starring in more and more movies.
He mostly sang and danced but he had to be
doing something right for them to keep making
them. 

Then around when the Beatles came out he
disappeared again and it seemed like a long time
before he showed back up for what they called
his “Comeback Tour.” His hair wasn’t slicked
back anymore and he had these thick sideburns
like some motorcycle greaser from the fifties. It
was all a big success though and his music came
back on the radio but that was different too now,
slower and more old fashioned. All I knew for 
 
 
 Arkansas Review 55.2 (August 2024) 
 126 
 
 
 
sure was that it wasn’t for me. 

One day some friends and I were driving
down Bellevue when we saw Elvis out at his gate
talking to some fans. None of us had ever seen
him up close so we decided to stop but by the
time we parked and got over there, the crowd had
grown a lot bigger. We stood at the back but then
the gates opened up and the crowd began mov-
ing inside towards one of the stone walls sur-
rounding the grounds. 

In New Orleans once this guy asked what I
thought of Elvis and I’d answered, “Just a Mem-
phis hick who made it big,” and I’d felt bad
about that ever since. I mean, who knew what he
was really like but then I thought maybe I could
find out if I got up to the front of this crowd. A
friend motioned to where two more friends were
climbing up onto the stone wall so I climbed up
too and followed behind them along the top of
the wall to just above Elvis. We all sat down there
just a few feet from his head. 

He had on a shiny gold shirt and white pants
as he sat there talking to his fans. Maybe it was
how his dyed black hair was so puffed out but his
head looked twice as big as any I’d ever seen. He
didn’t know we were there and I thought how
easy it would be to just smack him. Then I saw a
bodyguard type in the crowd watching us and
someone else taking pictures and thought what
a great shot with the crowd down below and us
up above and that’s why they were letting us sit
there. Then I guess someone tipped him off be-
cause Elvis twisted his head around to look up at
us and said, “Hey up there, how you fellas doin’?” 

I answered, “pretty good,” and that’s all we
said. He then turned back to his fans and we
walked back around the wall to climb down. His
voice had been that same one we all knew but
there’d also been a Mississippi twang to it I’d
never heard before. I was glad he’d felt comfort-
able enough out there in his front yard to not
worry about how he sounded. It was like it was
hard for him to relax and you felt that from him
too. It came off as a sensitivity that made you like
him. 

He sang everything, love songs, ballads, gos-
pel, jazz. But as his success grew so did his drug
problems. During one of his stays at Baptist Hos-
pital with the aluminum foil in the windows, a
girlfriend and I were driving down Union when
she told me her aunt was his nurse up there and
all he did was brush his teeth. He’d brush them
and then ten minutes later he’d brush them
again. It went on like that all night and the only
other thing her aunt said about it was that it was
sad. 

I’d just turned onto the ramp on I-240 when
it came on the radio that Elvis was dead. They
hinted at an overdose and the problems that
came with addiction. One report said that he’d
had a pill doctor who’d given him anything he
wanted and that made sense as I knew plenty of
those doctors in Memphis. 

It was normal for Memphians to mourn him
but what didn’t seem normal at all was so many
people coming from other places to mourn him
too. I moved away the next year and watched
from a distance as his celebrity grew. At first it
surprised me and then I was shocked by how
many people traveled there. But then I too, whe-
never I took a trip back to Memphis, went to
Graceland to load up on the Elvis junk that I
then gave out back in New York. It was like you
just couldn’t go wrong with Elvis. 

So after dozens of movies and documen-
taries, a new biopic on him had just come out
that’s been nominated for several awards. His
widow, Priscilla, the same girl my sister went to
high school with, and their daughter, Lisa Marie,
spoke so highly of the actor playing Elvis that I’d
made a point of seeing it. That was during the
week before our next book club, the one I’d just
arrived at.
 
 
 Arkansas Review 55.2 (August 2024) 
 127 
 
 
 
 
 4 
 

As usual, some of us liked the book while
others didn’t. This latter group, of whom I was
one, kept our comments mostly to ourselves so
as to not dampen the cordial atmosphere created
by our host. By that same token, there’s no rea-
son I can’t say what I thought now. I hated The
Prince and reading it was just as excruciating as
my first time through fifty years earlier. I should
have said, “tried” reading because I chucked it
aside again just like in the good old days, con-
vinced once and for all that the only reason to
read Machiavelli was in its proof that, unlike the
cheese our host laid out, he didn’t get better with
age. 

Book club ended in a consensus—which I
have to admit Machiavelli had no small part in—
that humanity hasn’t changed much in the last
four centuries. The talk then turned to other
things. One of our members hadn’t completely
recovered from being hit by a car while jogging
but she went on to explain that even though she
still had some headaches, her doctors expected a
full recovery. 

Someone asked me about my medical con-
dition. The previous spring I’d spent two weeks
in an ICU after my aorta burst. That and the col-
lateral damage had been repaired over the course
of four major surgeries but it still had me a bit
rattled. Now whenever I’m asked how I am, I
usually just say “better.” That’s all most people
want to hear anyway and can’t say I blame them. 

Other books, plays and movies came up and
the new biopic about Elvis was mentioned. Not
all of us had seen it but one who had told of the
scene where Elvis as a young boy heard Gospel
music for the first time and began vibrating with
it. I told of some real footage from Elvis’ last con-
cert used near the end of the film. “So Elvis is at
his piano singing. His face is extremely bloated
and his eyes are so glazed you think he might col-
lapse when—” 

But then I caught myself, realizing I was
about to commit my usual “spoiler” blunder. The
conversation then moved to other things but
even as I joined in with it, I wanted to finish tell-
ing about the “Elvis” ending. So just as I did with
Machiavelli, I’ll tell it now but first, something
about spoilers. 

I’ve never understood them. How can saying
what happens in a story ruin it for someone else?
If you tell me a person jumped off a bridge, how
can that have meaning if I don’t know what went
before it? And if it doesn’t have any meaning,
how can it spoil anything? But others don’t like
spoilers. It really is that simple so I try not to do
it. In this case though, no harm was done so for
anyone who hasn’t seen the “Elvis” ending yet,
consider this your spoiler alert because I’m going
to reveal it now. 

As I was saying, in some real footage from his
last concert Elvis is at his piano singing “Un-
chained Melody.” Massive amounts of moisture
have welled up on his face and you’re unsure
whether it’s sweat or tears or both. But then, just
when it seems that he can’t go on, he peeks out
at his mostly female audience who are screaming
their hearts out in love and adoration. His voice
gains strength as he looks out again and then
again and we follow along with him to the end
of that much loved classic. 
 

Lonely river flows to the sea, to the sea, 

To the open arms of the sea, 

Lonely river sighs, wait for me, wait for me, 

I’ll be coming home, wait for me. 
 

Archival footage has mostly been used to fill
in the narrative when recreating a scene is pro-
hibitive but that wasn’t the case here. Everything
in the film up to that point had been recreated
but then this real footage is used without any at-
tempt to disguise it. It signals a change in the film
and serves as a kind of coda in the way that a su- 
 
 
 Arkansas Review 55.2 (August 2024) 
 128 
 
 
 
perscript is sometimes used at the end to tie up
loose ends. 

This is our last image of Elvis. And a remark-
able image it is indeed; him up on stage doing
what he’s always done best, singing his heart out
with every last bit of heart he has left. Taking that
lonely trip with his audience down the river to
the sea, to the open arms of the sea, as he looks
out again and then again at those women who
still embrace him to make sure they’re still there.
In that moment they are all his mothers and lov-
ers, just as it’s always been. 

More archival footage is interspersed. In one
clip he tells an audience that we need only a song
to make it to the end and we realize that “Un-
chained Melody” is that song in that moment
when he knows better than anyone how close to
the end he is.
 

And time goes by so slowly, 

And time can do so much, 

Are you still mine? 
 And every woman there screams back that she is.
In that moment, form and content came to-
gether for the perfect ending. That was what I
was going to say to book club but now I see how
it might have been more of a spoiler than I’d
thought. 
 
 5 
 

Emma was my nurse in the ICU the night
before my most critical surgery. She told me
about her longtime boyfriend, Dan. He sounded
like a nice guy but she seemed unsure about that
“rest of her life” part of getting married. They
had plans for two destination weddings coming
up that summer in the Caribbean. The weddings
were only two weeks apart though and she was
having second thoughts about traveling to almost
the same place twice in such quick succession. It
conflicted with her sense of economy and effi-
ciency. But marriage was in the air for her group
and she’d begun to feel that it was time for her
to kick out at least some of the stops. 

Steam was rising from the corner of my cu-
bicle and I saw that it was from a small autoclave
as she stacked layers of steaming towels next to
it. She then brought them to the table next to my
bed and began placing them on my chest. When
that steamy heat hit my skin it was like nothing
I’d ever felt before. It had been days since any-
thing clean and warm had touched my body. My
second surgery had come right after the first and
since both had been emergencies no attention
had been paid to “niceties.” Aside from that pen-
etrating warmth, washing or having it done for
me felt almost like healing. 

Emma folded half the towel already in place
back onto itself before applying the next one to
the same area while covering a new area of the
same size. In that way she proceeded across my
chest, stomach and legs. This solemn progression
over my body combined with the opiates in my
system lulled me into an almost fugue like state
as I savored each second. The parts of my body
still untouched seemed to cry out in anticipation
of that delicious warmth. It all seemed so master-
ful and beyond the ability of a normal human
that I finally had to tell her. 

“Emma, I can’t get over how well you do
that. Did someone teach you or did you learn it
yourself?” 

“Hmmm, a little of both.” 

“Did you always want to be a nurse?” 

“I’d always wanted to do something in med-
icine.” 

“Have you ever thought about becoming a
surgeon?” 

“Well, my hands aren’t really precise enough
for that. But something I’ve thought about is be-
coming a sales rep. You’ve probably seen them
out there at my station.” 

“I have.” 
 
 
 Arkansas Review 55.2 (August 2024) 
 129 
 
 
 

“They work for the medical suppliers and are
here to make sure we have everything we need,
even if they have to go get it themselves. They’re
good that way. It’s interesting and you get to
travel so a lot of us end up doing that. You have
to know a lot more about medicine than I do
now, but then you advance really fast and make
tons of money.” 

“I see.” 

“So how about you? What do you do?” 

“... I’m a legal assistant... and a writer.
That’s why I came to New York... more than
forty years ago now... to get my plays produced.
Back then you could get original plays done in
other places but you had to be a New York
playwright for people to take you seriously.” 

“So you’re a playwright. That sounds inter-
esting.” 

“I guess.” 

“You know, I saw my first play ever last
month on Broadway.” 

“Really? What was it?” 

“The Lion King.” 

“No kidding, how’d you like it?” 

“Oh my God, the theater was packed and
Dan and I were there in the dark when all these
animals were in the aisle and started coming out
of the shadows talking to us. I was holding Dan’s
hand and I felt his hand squeezing mine and I
was squeezing his. Then we looked at each other
and started laughing and we were lost in that
other world... and it was one of the most fun
nights I’ve ever had... .” 

“Wow!” 

“And you know the funniest part? It was my
birthday and Dan had been trying to decide for
months what to give me. And then... for some
reason he took a chance and bought those
tickets... .” 

“And you had one of the best nights of your
life. Now you know why I became a playwright.” 

“I do.” 

“Sounds like Dan did good.” 

“He did real good.” 
She’d finished up with the towels and was
collecting them back on the table. 

“...Thank you.” 

“You’re welcome.” 

“... I think I’ll sleep now.” 

“I’ll check back.” 

“... Goodnight.. .” 

“Goodnight.”
 
 6 
 

In the subway after book club I thought of
the time between coming home from the hospi-
tal and having to put Herman to sleep. It seemed
right that in the same week I’d finally gotten
some good news from the doctors, Herman had
taken a turn for the worse. It was almost like he’d
stuck around for the bad part and then when I
was better, he felt like he could go. 

A few years back we were watching TV when
he’d jumped off the couch and staggered into the
kitchen. From my previous cats, I knew it was
probably a stroke. But then he was able to eat his
late night snack even as he leaned to one side.
Over the next few days, he regained his strength
and I was sure it had been a small stroke that had
now cleared up. 

I considered taking him to the vet but de-
cided against it. Even though he was almost
twenty, he’d only been a few times. The last time
about ten years earlier they didn’t let me in the
examining room so I’d watched through the door
window. Two assistants wearing shoulder length
gloves held him with his stomach turned up
while another gave him an injection. I almost
couldn’t believe it when I saw a stream of piss
shooting straight up from him and splashing all
three. After he was back in his carrier, the Vet
told me they usually keep cats overnight but that
wasn’t such a good idea with Herman. The last
thing he said was, “Take Herman home and 
 
 
 Arkansas Review 55.2 (August 2024) 
 130 
 
 
 
enjoy him,” and that was exactly what I did. 

So there’d be no Vet since nothing could be
done anyway and just going there might trauma-
tize him enough to cause another stroke. It went
on like that for another year until his next stroke
which was a lot like the first except that he moved
more slowly afterward. 

When he was younger I’d roll him around
the apartment on my desk chair. He’d hunker
down on the seat while I pushed him up and
down the hall faster and faster before ending it
with a few good spins. But after his first stroke I
was afraid that might cause another one so I
stopped. The only thing I still did like that was
when he’d come up onto my chest I’d hold him
over my head and rock him down like he was
hanging from a parachute. But then one time I
was letting him down when he yelled in my face,
“No! I’m too old now so you can’t do this any-
more!” Whenever he came up after that I’d just
let him settle down with his head on my
shoulder. 

When I got home from the hospital Herman
was still doing fine. Then in the summer he
didn’t want his late night dry snack which had
always been his favorite ritual. Then he didn’t
want his dry food at all anymore so I replaced it
with wet food. With his habits changing so fast,
I knew that he was getting worse and then in the
fall I saw that he was losing weight. 

I’d always had strict rules for him because
when he’d first come to live with me that was the
only way to keep him from ripping me apart but
now all those rules were broken. He was eating,
or at least tasting, four different kinds of wet food
a day and getting constant attention. One day we
were watching a basketball game on the couch
and he seemed so happy I couldn’t help but
think he knew what was happening to him. It oc-
curred to me that this was how it should be for
everyone. Herman was simply enjoying the time
he had left. That day with Herman began taking
on more importance as I thought it might hold
an answer to something I’d asked myself in the
hospital. 

It was just before they came to get me for a
surgery that I knew I might not come back from.
I’d soon be under anesthesia so I looked around
for something to be the last thing I’d see but
couldn’t find anything. I wondered if I’d had a
wife or a kid there would it have helped and de-
cided that it would but I also knew that in my
case, it wouldn’t be enough. So what would? All
I knew for sure was that it had to do with accom-
plishing something. It wasn’t the fact of having
accomplished it but feeling like I had on some
basic level, like the way Herman had been that
day on the couch. To be so completely there that
no matter how the surgery turned out, I’d be
okay with it because I already had what I needed.
I told myself that if I came out of this surgery I’d
live every second after it to be able to say that. 

I thought of what happened before leaving
book club earlier. I was in the living room when
the NBA playoffs came on TV. Our host’s daugh-
ter was watching and it surprised me that she was
a Milwaukee Bucks fan as I’d never met a Bucks
fan before. I asked her why and she said they had
some rookies she liked but since the Bucks had
already been eliminated she was looking for
another team to follow. Then she began listing
different players from around the league and I
was impressed that she had such definite opin-
ions. She talked about talent, character and ma-
turity, this last being especially surprising given
her young age. 

It reminded me of something that happened
that night in the ICU with Emma. This guy out
in the hall was going past my cubicle when I
heard him say something about basketball. I com-
mented on it to Emma so she ran out and called
down the hall for him to come back. In a few mi-
nutes three extremely tall ex-basketball players
were in my cubicle discussing the upcoming play-
 
 
 Arkansas Review 55.2 (August 2024) 
 131 
 
 
 
offs. When I told them who my team was, they
looked at me like I’d looked at our host’s daugh-
ter as these guys had never met a Grizzlies fan be-
fore. But then I told them I’d been a New York
Knicks fan back during the Starks era and that
gave me some credibility as they’d all grown up
with that team. We reminisced about our favorite
old Knick players and then they asked if I
thought the Griz actually had a chance to win the
championship. I knew none of them did so I de-
cided to play my ace. 

“Well, I saw Jordan and even Bird back in
the day and I was in the Garden just last month
to watch Ja when the Griz were in town. That’s
all I’m saying.”

“Wait, you saw Ja in the Garden?” 

“I did.” 

“Live and in person?” 

“I did.” 

“So let’s hear it.” 

I let an appropriate silence settle in before
answering. 

“I’ll put it this way. It’s impossible to even
describe how good he was.” 

At that, their hoots and laughter shook my
small cubicle. Now these guys had all played at a
high level plus they were huge NBA fans. They
knew more about basketball than I ever would
but their favorite players were the big stars from
big city markets like LeBron and Steph, not this
new guy, Ja, who might be talented but still ain’t
won shit. Then one of them named Corey spoke
up in his quiet way. 

“Your man, Ja, I’ll give you. He’s good but
he’s young and playoffs are a whole different ani-
mal.” 

The other two then threw down. “Damn
right. You listen to Corey cause he knows.” 

And he did too because the Griz ended up
losing in the second round just like Corey said.
But what I remember most about those guys was
them stopping back in that night a few more
times. And they didn’t do it just as a favor to
Emma. It was like they came back to share in the
intensity of my situation. Maybe for them it was
like being back on the court in a close game with
the clock ticking down and all that matters is
making that shot. To be completely in that mo-
ment when everything else falls away... 

That’s what I’d wanted that day before sur-
gery, to be like Herman had been on the couch
when all that mattered was just being there. If I
could truly take in a moment like that, then
that’s all there would ever have to be. All the rest,
the what-ifs, half-lies, half-truths, recriminations
and regrets, none of it would matter. And there
wouldn’t have to be anything beyond it either. It
had already been done so it wouldn’t have to be
done again. Anything extra would just be icing
on the cake. 

And that brings me again to that last scene
in “Elvis.” He’s singing to his adoring fans while
knowing that the end is near. That’s why he
keeps looking out at those women who still em-
brace him. He’s simply taking it in while all the
rest, even the possibility that he might not get up
from that piano, drifts away. He’s already paid
the price a thousand times over so he’s going to
enjoy that moment and take refuge in it and revel
in it for as long as it lasts. 

It reminds him of when the world was young
and held unlimited possibility. Not like now
when each new day brings only new problems
and new pain. How much will it cost to go on?
And does he want to pay that price even if he
could? If all the lights were suddenly shut off or
even if the whole world hated him and tried to
take it all back, it wouldn’t matter. He’s already
paid in full so it’s his now. That’s what his grin
is saying. He sees those faces out there filled with
such love for him that he knows he already has
everything he needs and will ever need again
right there with him.
 
 
 Arkansas Review 55.2 (August 2024) 
 132

A Toast
by Jacob Reecher 
 
 
 4. 
 Round midnight quiet enough for to hear
my watch tick. Three hundred make five mi-
nutes. Twelve times over make an hour. The
moonlight tune my eyes, the room go blue like
nighttime the movies. Five hooks the door, seven
empties the dresser, four big two little cracks the
ceiling, eight cigarettes the pack my nightstand.
I sit up and smoke one minus a minute for
to conk out. The lighter torches my night vision
and smoke spins my head, but come three hun-
dred more ticks I’m wide awake again.
When I can’t sleep, I hate it. My kid self lay
up all night, times, stared bedroom corners’ pitch
black shadows, saw things weren’t there. Raked
a man’s yard and bought a nightlight. Then for
the reflection couldn’t see out the window. Felt
watched. So opened it, but were plenty shadows
outside too, the grass, the woods further. So
raked another yard and bought a flashlight,
pointed it shadows whole nights, till neighbors
complained and my parents took the light away.
Dark stopped scaring me, but from habit I
never sleep easy. Last six or seven years liquor
help. Why I can’t sleep tonight. Ain’t drank since
day before yesterday. Plenty nights I fall asleep
still hung over. But dead sober, like tonight,
hardly any use to crawl between sheets.
Ain’t on no wagon. Drunk myself broke.
Happens regular, every couple months. Night at
the bar swings into the next, the next, picks up
steam. All a sudden pay day’s next week and ain’t
got dough enough for a pint malt liquor.
So I can’t sleep, and I hate it.
My watch ticks still. Open my window for
the bugs to drown it out. Air’s warm and wet
from rain hours passed. For the moon the yard’s
lit clear, so the woods’ shadows is darker. Dark
stopped scaring me, but still I watch it careful.
All a sudden, quiet as nothing, goddamn
horse bound out the woods into the moonlight.
Trot the middle the yard and look back the
shadows it come from, like expect something
after it. Skit around my birch tree and whinny,
settle, take to the grass. Pale blue as a ghost and
saddled, but no rider.
Slip out my window. Got a door, but won’t
take eyes off this horse. I whistle and he look up.
Watch me, sniff my outstretched hand, then back
to munch grass glistering cool for dew.
Saddle ain’t bad. Leather’s clean, worked
western-style with curvy bramble patterns like on
a bandit’s bandanna. Horn’s curved tusk-like.
Brass buttons everywhere. No expert, me, but I
bet this saddle for to ride joyful, not for to rustle.
The stirrups hang low. The rider ain’t there, he
tall.
“Where’s your man, Caballo?” I say. Give me
a hoot, to name animals their Spanish words.
Caballo ain’t answer. I pat him the ass and
he flick his tail like for to shoo a fly but ain’t stop
munching my lawn. Over by them woods Ca-
ballo come from, I look the dark. No sign no-
body. Maybes are three. First is Caballo’s man
saddled him up, opened the gate and went to
bed. Second, Caballo saddled himself and elab- 
 
 
 Arkansas Review 55.2 (August 2024) 
 146 
 
 
 orated an escape. Man fell off and somewhere in
the woods is hurt the third. First two being un-
likely, I guess to round up a search party of me,
myself, and I. Sleep ain’t mine tonight anyways.
Tie Caballo up my birch and go inside. Use the
door this time. Put on jeans off the floor and
boots and a flannel for the bugs. Find a flashlight
the junk drawer and I’m as ready I’ll ever be.
Now besides I ain’t no special tracker, to
traipse in dark woods with a horse in tow be
tougher than without. But I find this guy, and
find him hurt, to get him safe be simpler with a
horse than without. So I untie Caballo and lead
him back way he come. Dark stopped scaring me
long time ago.
 
 3. 
 Thought I was getting away with something.
Late-night watering hole, crowd, money every-
where. Somebody threw two dollars’ tip down
next to me. Sat there five minutes. Bartender
ain’t looked at it even, seemed. So I slid it off the
bar like a hand Texas Hold ’Em and with it
bought beer nine.
Worked so sweet, when nine was dry I waited
for another blessing. Soon enough saw Lincoln
eyeing me, and palmed him too. Abe bought me
couple fingers rail.
Ain’t exactly remember happened next. Can
guess some eagle eye across the room ratted.
Maybe lost my wits in the sauce, chanced too
long a stretch. Course luck just run out some-
times. Anyway, was some shouting and I pin-
balled fist to fist out the door.
Came to crossing the bridge out of town.
Only bridge around but I needed a minute or
two for to orient. Lit a cigarette and watched the
water below. For clouds, river was pure black, but
high and fast enough to hear rush against the
stone.
“Don’t do it,” someone said.
I turned round. Truck idled on the bridge.
Lady inside, her hair under a cap, looked me
from behind pair glasses. A collie sat the pas-
senger seat, tongue hanging out its head.
“Do what?” I said.
“Jump,” said the lady.
I squinted, closed an eye. Her face wrinkled,
like from smoking decades. Knew her from some-
wheres. Rather knew she knew me from some-
wheres, as she ain’t looked concerned or scared.
Eyed me like a mom, and if I jumped I’d get it.
Made me want to lock eyes and fall over back-
wards.
“What’s a matter?” I said. “Scared of the
dark?”
She sipped from a mason jar. Jerked her
thumb to the truckbed.
“Get in,” she said. “I’ll take you home.”
Tossed my cigarette the river and crawled
over the sorry wall kept sidewalk from road. All
a sudden was flat on the pavement, wind
knocked out. Collie whimpered down from the
window
“I’m all right, Perro,” I said.
“Get up and get in,” Lady said. “Car com-
ing.”
I hauled up and rolled into the truckbed.
Kneeled behind the cab with my arms on the
roof. Lady pulled out of town, turned the way my
house like she knew. I stared the dark beyond the
headlights, prayed for to hit it like a brick wall. 
 
 5. 
 Find Caballo’s trail no trouble for mud, but
he ain’t easy leading. Woods is dark, gets him
skittish. Every root our way I got to teeth the
flashlight and pull him, both hands. Fall my ass
for the slickery mud. This rate, won’t find Ca-
ballo’s man till he’s dead thirsty, starved out in
the dark. I stop, light a cigarette, pat Caballo the
neck. 
 
 
 Arkansas Review 55.2 (August 2024) 
 147 
 
 
 “Only ways I know get a horse to move” I tell
him, “is carrot or stick. Well, ain’t got no carrot.
Sticks plenty around, but ain’t about beat no
horse’s ass out in no dark woods ain’t nobody
know I’m in. Get my nuts busted or my face
kicked in, wind up a shape like your man.”
Worse, I mumble on, worse shape for no-
body to look for me. Might could be missed
round lunch o’clock Monday. Quintin at the
plant pop open his bag potato chips, ain’t hear
me beg for none, say who’s seen Greer. Vick say
who cares. Sam say thought work gone quicker
today. Wednesday Swanson fire me and maggots
take up the sockets my eyes and Mitch down the
pub ain’t yet thought to ring.
Ain’t no town favorite, me, nor mystery why.
I skimp on tips, stink up bathrooms, borrow
money I ain’t pay back, work slow, drink fast,
without even a pretty face to half make up for it.
But life ain’t never give me much besides shit.
Shit family, shit grades, shit jobs for shit pay. So
I ain’t give much back. Used to hear could do
anything I want, be anything I want, I set my
mind to it. Set my mind to drink, be drunk, I
guess.
Caballo lead easier, I talk. He like my voice
the dark. By now we retraced his hoof prints half
mile, three quarter. Looking back hardly see my
porch light through the trees. Ahead the woods
spread couple mile. Shine my light straight the
dark and squint, pull Caballo along. All another
sudden, so I’m damned I ain’t seen it sooner, a
boot, old cowboy kind, upright the grass, like is
stood in by a ghost ain’t had but one leg. Wave
my hand over the boot make sure weren’t none,
then pick it up, show Caballo.
“Know this boot?” I say.
Caballo snort.
“Ought to rib you the heel,” I say, “see it feel
familiar.”
Caballo snort.
I pat Caballo so he know I kid. Like the sad-
dle, boot is good polished leather, ain’t stood
there long. Must come from Caballo’s man. Pic-
ture he fell, dragged a ways till his foot slipped
out the boot, and the boot fell out the stirrup
later on. Strange it landed upright, but strange
things ain’t so uncommon really. What’s impor-
tant, we’re on the trail.
I grab Caballo’s reigns for to lead him on.
Ain’t know what to do with the boot, so set it
back the ground, upright like was found. After a
while look back, the dark already swallowed it.
 
 2. 
 Knew I could beat the son bitch, so called
double nothing and stuck my last quarters the
table. While he racked and broke I got another
shot and beer. Mitch brought them with my
check.
“Not closing out,” I said
“Damned if you ain’t,” Mitch said. Pointed
Snodgrass. “Before he takes all your money.”
I knocked back the shot, took my beer, left
the check the table. He ain’t knowed I ain’t
walked in with dough enough to pay my tab.
What the hustling was for.
“I got Snot-grass right where I want him,” I
said. “You just ready me up a victory round.”
Back the table Snodgrass chalked like a big
man, grabbed the cue by the ass and shoved it in
the chalk his other hand. Made himself a fool,
like he always done. Back in school he’d set over-
unders on himself at thirty, forty points, then
ride the bench whole games. And welch, course.
Jersey’d still get him laid.
He blew chalk off his tip, said was solids.
Table spread favored me. Tapped nine the
side pocket, sailed down the rail to nudge thir-
teen the corner. Then, without sighting, ham-
mered a shot across the table, sank twelve the
opposite corner. Missed the next shot, but 
 
 
 Arkansas Review 55.2 (August 2024) 
 148 
 
 
 weren’t worried. Was drunk enough for to play
on feel, instinct. Game was mine.
Snodgrass ain’t had no shot, tried for to
bank, scratched. Set me up for to knock down
ten and fourteen. Left just the eleven, the eight.
I finished my beer and called a smoke break.
“You serious?” Snodgrass said.
I rattled my pack I walked away, said, “As
death.”
Outside rain wet the streets jet black. From
a bench a lady, cap on her hair, stared down the
storm and scratched a collie. I sat down next her
and lit up. Collie came up for to sniff me. I
scratched his ears, shook his head a bit.
“Hello, Perro,” I said.
“Speak Spanish?” Lady said. She took my
lighter and torched another smoke.
“Naw,” I said. “There some Mexicans work
down the plant, but they speak English good
enough.”
I shoved Perro out my crotch and he flopped
down next his lady’s feet. She hanged down her
hand for to bat his tail.
“The meat plant,” she said. “Knew I knew
you from somewhere.”
I looked her face, wrinkled from smoking
decades. All a sudden I remembered it behind
glasses, big and round, looking at me from out a
crowd of fresh pale faces.
“You was on that field trip,” I said. “You
teach.”
“I’m a teacher’s aide,” she said. “You kill
cows.”
“I am a cow killer,” I said. “Known far and
wide, every barn and pasture. Feared by calves,
bulls, heifers world over.”
“I can smell it on you,” she said. “The
death.”
I leaned at her and sniffed good.
“On you,” I said, “I smell dipshit kids.”
“Don’t like kids?” she said.
“I ain’t feel nothing about no kids,” I said.
“Except they ain’t should be around me. That
one blacked out?”
Lady ain’t said nothing first. Lifted her leg
was crossed over the other, stuck her boot out for
the rain to fall on. Wet spot the leather goes dark,
clean.
“She never saw nothing die,” she said.
“Better she ever was, guess,” I said.
But I ain’t really wanted to discuss it, so I
stubbed out my cigarette. Was near smoked any-
way. Said I had a game of pool to clinch, but be
happy to buy her a drink she wanted to join me
for to celebrate victory.
Inside Snodgrass chalked again like it helped
him. And damned if I didn’t drop the eleven and
the eight shooting from the hip, count my win-
nings in shots and beer. How I wish, anyway.
Could be Snodgrass welched like usual. Could
be I lost, welched myself, skipped my tab again.
All I remember’s I shot at eleven, then woke up
the morning home, still drunk and with not a
dollar.
 
 6. 
 Goes darker and darker. My flashlight’s
dying. Were out the woods the moon be enough
to see. Under the trees I need my torch. Dark
ain’t scare me no more ain’t mean it can’t kill
me. Trip on a rock, Caballo step my head. Dead
gone dead. Course ain’t never been dead, but I
bet against a light the end a tunnel.
Soon flashlight’s useless yellow and dim.
Can’t follow Caballo’s trail no further. I squat,
back against a tree, poke inside my pack for a
smoke. Empty. Curse the luck got me waiting for
dawn miles from home with not a cigarette. Ca-
ballo snort like get up, let’s go.
“No point, Caballo,” I say. “Can’t see.”
A stomp, another snort, like he ain’t give a
shit. He whinny, start to walk who know where. 
 
 
 Arkansas Review 55.2 (August 2024) 
 149 
 
 
 Figure the dark got him skittish, so I tie him up
and grope the area for twigs and sticks. Bout ev-
erything wet, but with my empty pack for to kin-
dle I get a fire lit. Caballo ain’t calm down none.
So I feed the fire to roar. Bigger it gets, the easier
I find sticks, and can be damp some. Soon the
woods dancing in firelight far I see. And Caballo
still stomp and whinny, pull the rope. Damned
if I know his problem, I look off where he try to
get. Edge the firelight’s a shadow ain’t seen be-
fore. Man shaped, but look taller till I see the feet
ain’t touch the ground.
When my kid self saw things weren’t there,
sometimes tried for to stare them away. Other
times tried for to blink gone what weren’t there.
To stare, to blink ain’t worked never. Was always
the light. So when first I stare down this shadow
and next blink myself dizzy, no use, I pile sticks
the fire till it burn higher than me. Like to burn
down the forest for to see this thing ain’t there.
 
 1. 
 Hung up my bolt hammer, unzipped my
coverall. Quintin strung up the cow by her
haunches, Vick slit her throat. Blood poured like
it does, over the white concrete floor and down
the drain. Quintin and Vick unzipped coveralls,
peeled off gloves. Bled out, cow swung down line
on the crane.
“Lunch o’clock,” I said.
“No shit,” Vick said. “That what that bell
means?”
Never could say nothing but Vick or Quintin
had some to say about it.
Was almost stripped to street clothes when
the door from the shop opened. Shuffled in
Swanson himself, and a dozen zit-faced kids and
a couple bag-eyed teachers behind. Me and Vick
and Quintin stood like dummies. Hoped maybe
they ain’t seen us, moved on, and us free for
lunch. No such luck. Swanson waved at us, held
up a finger like for to tell a dog to stay.
“This is the killing floor,” he told the kids
they settled. Explained I knock out cows for
Quintin to hang and Vick to bleed. Kids stared
him, eyes horror-swoll like they rather anyplace
else be. Rathered they that, me. Ain’t none them
looked sixteen, their braces, pimples, some their
baby fat, some their skinny legs. A ribbon the
hair one girl, even, like dressed her up her mom.
She ain’t should been there. None these babies
ain’t should been. Were I bet still scared the
dark, all them. Swanson quit his talk and turned
us like take it from here. We stared back, played
more dumb.
“Okay,” Swanson said. “Any questions?”
Hands went up. Brunette asked we still eat
meat. Jock type asked how many cows we kill a
day. Boy in black asked how long worked here,
asked we like our jobs. Never heard no dumber
questions, me. The meat we got the store weren’t
the same these animals. We ain’t counted the
cows we kill, the years we spent to kill them. And
ain’t made no difference to like a job, not like a
job. Job just thing you work. Work just thing
passed time the night come. Them kids ain’t
knowed the day just time for to wait the dark
come. They ain’t knowed a thing about nothing,
and they was better for it. I ain’t remembered a
long time life once been more than death,
weren’t so always.
The questions dried up, we all of us stood
moment silence. Like for to remember some-
thing. Teacher coughed, looked Swanson. Swan-
son coughed, looked me and Vick and Quintin.
Three us played bit more dumb, Swanson
pointed the next cow. Vick sighed and zipped up
his coverall, pulled his gloves back on. Quintin
too. Ain’t felt like to demonstrate. Ain’t wanted
to show no death to no kids. I coughed my own
cough, looked for backup. One four-eyed teacher,
woman a cap her head, face wrinkled like from 
 
 
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 smoking decades, mouthed sorry. The rest them
just looked me.
So I zipped my coverall and grabbed my bolt
hammer. Opened the gate for next cow to waddle
in, climbed up the pen for to stand over her
head. Lifted the bolt hammer and felt breath
come out the room. Looked the girl a ribbon her
hair.
“She ain’t feel nothing,” I promised, and
swung the bolt hammer for to nail her between
the eyes. Every one her twelve-hundred pound
dropped like that.
Boys laughed and fought for to see better.
Most the girls squealed. Ribbon girl turned green
as grass. Quintin hooked the cow, strung her up.
He done so, I climbed down and slipped Vick’s
knife out his hand. Weren’t to let nobody else
show them kids something was mine.
“Mind the smell,” I said, and cut her throat.
Blood poured out like it does.
Whole class, teachers too, pinched noses.
Girl the ribbon her hair fainted. The lady the
glasses and cap slapped her gentle for to wake her
up, and the cow swung down line.
Quintin and Vick peeled gear, but I ran off
the killing floor still my work clothes, plus the
knife my hand. Ain’t could wipe my face the
filthy coverall sleeve. Not now that girl a ribbon
her hair know a thing about nothing, I wanted
get good hard drunk.
 
 7. 
 Under his stocking foot’s a bottle whiskey,
half-drunk. I picture it dropped time his neck
broke. Held on to the end. I relate. Caballo
nudges him, swings him back and forth, then
munches grass under his feet. Back behind the
fire snaps and twists. His pants is wet.
Ain’t know his face. No surprise. Ain’t know
many faces I ain’t see at the plant, the bar. Since
been nowhere, only seen faces come my way. And
this man, his face ain’t come my way, sure. White
man, white hair, dressed a suit like for to give his
daughter away. Tie catching the breeze. Ring on
his finger.
Was kind enough for to cap the bottle before
he kicked Caballo out under him. I pick it up,
swig. Ain’t nothing like it, liquor, except sex. It’s
good, it’s great, it’s bad, it’s good, ain’t had it a
while, it ain’t matter. Feel it my arms first, warm
down my veins. Swig again, let my knees buckle.
Look up to the dead man. Ask him the differ-
ence between him, me.
He ain’t answer. Ain’t expect him to. Ques-
tion still stands. I ain’t had much, never. Ain’t
expect to have much never. Lived thirty years this
earth, hardly memories enough for to count my
fingers and toes. Few fights, some won, some
lost. Few lays, some good, some bad. Few arrests,
some bullshit, some fair enough. Thirty, forty
years more to live and I ain’t got barely hope for
another good lay, much less a friend, good work.
Somebody love me.
But damned if ever I thought much about a
stunt like this man pull. Cross my mind, times,
sure, but always go its way. Swig again to him, bra-
vest man I ain’t never knowed.
On my back now. The leaves above brushed
by wind, tickled by firelight. Eyes closed, even,
still ain’t total dark. Caballo munches still. Hear
the grass rip, feel it almost. Swig the last, toss the
bottle. Fall asleep. 
 
 
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Poems (in Memory of Richard Wooten)
by Floyd Collins 
 
 Richard Wooten: 1952-2024 
 Red mercury inches up a thermometer we nailed
Hard to peeling birch bark, and it’s noon before
It dawns on us that the glass bleb threatens to pop
Under the sun’s relentless gaze in Red Banks, 
 Mississippi. Last night cicadas chattered like pressure
Cookers in the August heat, and our palms festered
With blisters despite the leather gloves we wore, Rick,
Gouging post holes in the gritty ochre marl each day, 
 Our biceps and pectorals flexing from sunrise to dusk.
We fenced three acres with barbed wire that summer,
Passing back and forth at night a mason jar that clinked
With ice and blended whisky stolen from your father’s 
 Liquor cabinet. Our throats moved like a roan pony’s,
His muzzle dunked in the starlit trough. The full
Moon bluer than a blood-gorged tick, you’d conjure
Slices of layered lemon cake we once wolfed amid 
 Pink mimosa blossoms. It took hours looking for Coke
Empties, still green in those days, before we had coins
Enough to taste of the baker’s sugary confection.
Sated in our arboreal retreat, we listened to a thrasher’s 
 Sliding treble before bicycling home for dinner.
By now we’d seen eighteen summers wither
In their pride and deemed ourselves too manly
For those idylls of our first youth. Still, we both 
 Nurtured cravings for home-made ice-cream,
The sweet ache of grinding rock salt and ice
Until the green wooden tub paid out smooth
Scoops of vanilla. Cynthia spun far-fetched 
 
 
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 Yarns about ghosts, hobgoblins, and witches,
While we both watched for the firefly’s electric
Stroke in the wild plum orchard. Those tales
Wouldn’t impose on a ten-year-old but we were
 Only eight. Rick, you never graduated high school
But chose the lumber that would build your home
On Briscoe Road from basement to gable. The deft
Staccato of your hammer counter-pointed the small 
 Repairs of a yellow-billed sapsucker in the pines.
Your power saw’s adenoidal whine ate through burl
And knot until you carved out heartwood. You paced
Off your tract of ground and planted pinnacled rows 
 Of corn. You staked tomato vines, then added squash,
Cucumbers, and peach trees to your garden. Every
Hunting season, a cleft-hoofed twelve-tined buck
Stepped nimbly into your Winchester’s cross-hairs. 
 One squeeze set your table-board with venison for months.
Clad in leather boots, denim overalls, and deerskin jacket,
You died March 12th, a solitary man gone down into legend.
I ask in return, Rick, only some gentle remembrance of me. 
 The Beaten Track 
 I deemed myself clever, Rick, when I remarked
That a Delta girl’s thoughts were nuts without meat
But I loved to “crack ’em.” This said by your hearth
During Christmas while we listened to chestnuts
Seethe and sputter in an iron skillet. We were feckless
Lads in those days and prone to such utterance. 
 Still, we embraced summer evenings when the moon
Put its ice in our glasses of Coke and Jim Beam.
Frosted napkins lent our calloused palms a purchase
On those trickling shots. The stream lulled itself
To sleep, pouring its tribute into the lake. We heard
The catfish jumping at stars. Some angler’s skiff came 
 
 
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 About, his oar swirl like a vespers bell in the chill
Depths. Often the water bailiff fined poachers
Before they could broil their catch over live coals.
Each May I conjured a million puffs of smoke,
The cottonwood hauling its long freight toward
Those idyllic memories of fall. Both of us, Rick,
 Hankered after the creatural existence of hobos
Despite our privileged upbringing. We imagined
Dipping dented tin cups into a crackling cauldron
Of mulligan stew, a small tent of patched canvas
Our only shelter in all weathers. What could we
Ever know about hunger and loss, who never once 
 Slept beside dying sticks and embers, a ten-cent loaf
Cradled under one arm like an infant? The hobo’s bindle,
His bed clothes and blue denim jacket, rode one shoulder,
And we fancied ourselves famished knights of the road,
Who never shirked hewing wood or stoking a furnace
To earn whatever thin provender we needed to reach 
 The next town. We hearkened to the mellifluous strains
Of Linda Ronstadt’s soulful lyric “The Hobo,” and seldom
Grasped that it was not good to be poor, and there were
No coins of minted silver to free us from the bondage
Of enduring want. Soon we learned a vagabond’s burden
And his lot of abject poverty was too hard for us to bear. 
 Much harsher than any game warden, one old hobo told us,
Were the railyard “bulls” with clubs to beat the sweet Jesus
Hell out of anyone hopping a freight on their line. Thus, Rick,
We relinquished all reveries, and savored our highballs. Coke
And Jim Beam ultimately proved enough for us. Highballing
Diesels held no more allure. The steel tracks ahead read all clear. 
 The Reunion 
 We filled a mason jar, Rick, with blended whisky.
Moonlight buoyed each clinking cube. Mosquitoes
Imbibed. We did likewise. You said the kisses
Of ardent women were strong liquor that never 
 
 
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 Loses its savor. We replenished our drinks,
Waxing more lyrical with every passing hour.
Your own mother kept a well-thumbed psalter
In the parlor, but I preferred my black-bound
 Pelican Shakespeare all clinquant with gold.
Leopard frogs simmered among the cattails
In the marsh, and both of us swore we heard
The grass growing once the moon went down. 
 We relished those August nights on the Delta.
I conjured the fish hooks we baited with wasp
Larvae, the papery nests like old punchboards
Still seen in country stores. Rick, you’d tease 
 With a toothpick each grub from its sticky cell.
Such operations required a lethal niceness. We
Snagged channel cat and trout in a creek so local
And cold we breathed frost until almost noon. 
 Say a cottonmouth would yawn a coffin’s satin.
I’d lop off its head with a machete. You’d peel
The hide and shellack it to the icehouse door.
Pit vipers made your flesh prickle and freeze. 
 In October 1972, we hitched from Memphis
South to Red Banks, the strains of America’s
“Ventura Highway,” their vocal harmonies,
Tortoise shell picks, and pearl-inlaid guitars 
 Bridging the gap and spanning the decades
Between then and now. You were a big-boned
Shack of a man, Rick. Your corporeal being
Reduced to crematory snow, you’re sifting 
 Through various layers of subsoil near the house
You built on Briscoe Road. Winter is behind us.
I’ve poured a mason jar full of 90-proof charcoal-
Filtered Jack Daniels. I expect you most any time. 
 
 
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