Weber StudiesHome , Archives , Reading Room , Search , Editorial Info , Books , Subscribe ,  West Links
Spring/Summer 1998, Volume 15.2



Ron Rash

Ron Rash has published a collection of stories. His work has appeared in
New England Review, Georgia Review, and Southern Review.


Speckled Trout

            Water-flesh gleamed like mica:
            orange fins, red flank-spots, a char
            shy as ginseng, if sought for
            in spring-flow gaps, the thin clear
            of far-away creeks no map
            could name. My cousin showed me
            those hidden places. I loved
            how we found them, the way we
            followed no trail, just stream-sound
            tangled in rhododendron,
            to where slow water opened
            a hole to slip a line in
            and lift as from a well bright
            shadows of another world,
            held in my hand, their color
            already starting to fade.


The Skeleton in the Dogwood
(Watauga County, 1895)

            Two lovers out walking found
            more than spring's promised blessing
            on new beginnings hanging
            in a dogwood tree's branches.

            No friend or kin claimed those bones.
            The high sheriff came. Foul play
            he was sure, but how or why
            he found no answers, so stayed

            to help break the ground, help haul
            a flat rock out of the creek,
            sprinkle some dirt, some God words,
            then left for more recent crimes.

            The lovers wed that winter.
            On their marriage night they dreamed
            of bouquets of spring flowers
            blooming in a dead man's hand.


The Well

Tangled, snaky, a homestead
to stay far from, and a well
where some claimed if you listened
you'd hear howling up from hell
the scorched voice of Carl Gragstone,
who dug that well, broke that land
and a wife who hanged herself
from the barn's highest beam, and
this was the place that I came
one May afternoon alone,
waded through thorn-snatch, sumac
to hear for myself and leaned
my ear to dark, brushed the noose
that swung the rust-rotten pail,
listened and listened and heard
not a single sound until
I cupped my mouth with my hands
and called, "Hello, Carl Gragstone,
are you down in hell?" and heard
not his damned words but my own.

Back to Top