The Preacher’s Daughter Who Loved a Boy Like Religion

The preacher’s daughter
tasted like peaches.

Peaches and that dust that
hangs from back roads as

cars pass like a red haze
of not knowing. She had

bruises on her knees, but
not from what you’d think.

There was a boy. There always
was. His name was Gospel if

there was ever such a name.
He tasted like railroad tracks.

His mind was so much bigger
than her. She thought one

night that she might drown in it.
He would sometimes point up

at all the stars in the sky and he’d
say, “Some of those are already dead.

We’re looking millions of years into
the past.” And she’d look at him

and she’d think that maybe
she’d like to be one of those ghost

stars if it meant
he was looking at her

By Shelby Asquith