Porch light gospel

I got ghosts in my throat I never let sing,

they sit like sweet tea left too long in the sun—

syrupy, strong, and bitter at the bottom.

They hum low under hymns I fake on Sundays,

hide in the hem of my mama’s apron,

and curl like smoke from my granddaddy’s pipe.

I speak soft so the holler don’t echo back,

'cause Lord knows the pines remember

more than they should—

every cry choked down

like grits when they clump

and Mama says don’t waste what’s given.

There’s a rusted swing out back

that never learned joy,

just creaks and cusses in the breeze,

like it knows what I know:

that silence ain’t peace—

it’s a fence with nails turned inward.

I been dreamin’ of fire,

not the burnin’ kind,

but the one that glows inside a lantern,

waitin’ for someone

to stop mistakin’ dimness for safety.

I loved a girl once

the way magnolias love heat—

wide open, heavy, unseen.

Told nobody.

Buried her name

under rows of turnips.

Ain’t it somethin’

how truth tastes like cornbread left in the pan too long?

Still warm. Still good.

But blackened on the bottom

where no one dares look.

So I rock, and I hush,

and I wait for the night to forgive me

for all the words I didn’t say.