Somewhere in Kentucky by Anna Knowles

Somewhere in Kentucky there is a bar
where my sister sits after work beneath
some misty mercy light, yawping
a language only she knows.

Somewhere in Kentucky there is a pretty
cathedral where she sings a yellowed hymn
I don’t know, sits then stands and sits again
numbering the amount of prayers

it takes to create discipline. Somewhere
in Kentucky there is a house with a busted
bible split between miller light and the rest
of the day and the whole night. Somewhere

in Kentucky someone is sober enough
to see her climb the stairs, ladder the pages
of the split-lip bible as she dips her hands
in for coalescence—it was late, somewhere

in Kentucky she drunk cries booze
of blessed rivers, wakes with our weathered
ancestors—uncertain, mute— she rubs open
a redeemed eye, makes the promise to God.

 

About Anna Knowles

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