Miriam Story
Those too-thin walls let out heavy sighs—
I listened for their heartbeat with my cheek cold against
plaster, closed my eyes to hear better.
I was in love—
I gave in and kissed a crack in the paint.
I can’t lie and say it kissed back,
but Mom says believing doesn’t hurt anyone.
Well, this is not a faith-having town;
this is a beige-walled town,
a half-spilled slow-drip on State Street.
We don’t live in Jamestown anymore
where ridge-people make meth and love
And try to friend me on Facebook, but
I’m still busy rubbing my nose in a crack in the wall,
assessing the water damage my saliva leaves.
When I moved into my first apartment
and ate chicken and dumplings
every night for a week straight,
I tried to miss home and couldn’t.
But I liketa died when the sunburnt bosom of home cookin’
comforted me like wet clothes, and
painted me onto the wall,
an Appalachian fresco.
