After lightning struck the church, the scar
descended from heaven to live among us
for two years; the church could afford to fix it,
but something else always came first.
It was nice while it lasted, wasn’t it?
They trimmed the dogwood tree, but
when spring came, it failed to blossom.
On Sunday, everyone had a place.
God forbid you sat in someone else’s spot.
Plastic stained glass windows.
A pulpit made of lacquered plywood.
Everything fake in some way or another.
For years, the church could afford to fix it,
but something else always came first.
A layer of fresh sod laid over old earth.
A layer of fresh asphalt laid over old sod.
A pile of buttermilk biscuits and fried chicken.
What was the point of feeding ourselves?
None of us had ever gone hungry.
We starved for something we could not put to words.
We saw the peeling paint, the black scar,
and we thought the sky was the problem.
is a storyteller from the Southeastern United States with a love of nature and a passion for writing. He believes stories and poems are about getting there, not being there, and he enjoys those tales that take their time getting to the point.
