The stove's balky. Won't catch.
I coax it with a match, talk to it
the way you talk to mules.
*
Somebody's laid by a garden down the road
where no house stands. Beans climb
dead strings. Squash gone to seed.
*
My dentist says I grind my teeth at night.
*
Revival's on at the brush arbor.
You can hear them clear to the ridgetop
not words, just the sound of wanting
pushed out into the dark.
*
Saw a boy carrying water
in two lard buckets, yoke across his shoulders.
Thought that he was done. Thought wrong.
*
There's a rock house back of the property
where somebody carved initials, and 1892.
Deep grooves. Took them all day, I reckon.
Whoever they were is bones now,
but the letters are there.
I asked myself once why I don't leave.
Didn't have an answer then.
Don't need one now.
*
The garden keeps. The stove lights
when it's ready. I'm still here
come morning, come winter,
come whatever's coming.
Not much else to say about it.
About the Creator
Tim Carmichael
Tim is an Appalachian poet and cookbook author. He writes about rural life, family, and the places he grew up around. His poetry and essays have appeared in Beautiful and Brutal Things, his latest book.
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