death in idaho
barry biechner
Everyone knows where Ernest Hemingway died. Suicide in his country home in the mountains. The last thing anybody ever reads in his biographical statement in every novel or collection he ever wrote: He died in Idaho.
A death in Idaho is a notable death. A death in Idaho is a primal death. The claws of a bear. The jaws of a mountain lion. Body swelling from the venom of a rattlesnake bite.
A death in Idaho is an embarrassing death. A fool’s death. Kicked in the chest by a mule or horse. Poisoned by berry or mushroom. Falling through the thin ice of a winter lake. A drunken rope swing accident. A forklift. Slowly being crushed and remembered as a cautionary tale forever.
A death in Idaho is an adventurous death. Alone in the landscape. Drowning in the river. Trapped in a cave. Broken limbs in the forest. Stranded and freezing on the peaks of mountains.
I’m from Idaho and nobody cares if anybody dies in Iowa.
Barry Biechner writes poetry and short fiction. His work has appeared in CIRQUE, Apeiron Review, The Bangalore Review and Burningword Literary Journal. He lives in Idaho.