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