
Walker County Rites
By Cheyenne Taylor
One average night you catch yourself
combing summer’s stour through your hair,
cutting the moon like fruit with a pocketknife.
The night undoes the hooks behind her back
for you, white freckles tossed across her skin.
Before the massless hoots of barred owls hail
you back to camp—your wet, unbaptized body
bruised by testing instinct—you’re convinced
that something’s watching. Fatwood fatigues.
You loom up to the fire, trusting heat. You say
I sort-of think, and I would like to pray,
and marvel at the coal barge hauling
light between banks. When someone thanks
the Lord for camp potatoes, aluminum foil,
rootstalks spread for tortoises, a mammal howls,
and you want all the earthly knowledges.
You steel yourself with whiskey for the river.
You plant yourself ashore and eat the dirt.
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