Gospel Holler
š³ļøāš
Baptism creek ran cold
even in August,
preacher said that's how
you know it's holy.
š³ļøāš
I held my breath underwater,
counting heartbeats
instead of sins.
Came up gasping,
still queer as a three-dollar bill
in the collection plate.
š³ļøāš
Weathered hands taught me
to shuck corn,
sharpen blades,
spot a liar by his smile,
but nobody showed me
how to love a man
and keep my teeth.
š³ļøāš
The general store still sells
those postcards:
"Greetings from God's Country!"
with a sunset photoshopped
over the meth labs.
š³ļøāš
I send one every Christmas
to the boy who kissed me
behind the barn,
his address long gone,
just like his daddy's
promises.
š³ļøāš
Now when it storms,
I stand bare-chested
on the back porch,
letting the rain
rewrite me in a gospel
these hills might yet
forgive.
About the Creator
Tim Carmichael
Let your becoming be louder than your fear, and your smallest steps become the road you once thought impossible to walk. An Appalachian poet and cookbook author my book Beautiful and Brutal Things is on Amazon, Link š
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