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_______________ Kathy Whitson Lookit these arms, skin brown as a backer leaf and as wrinkled, loose enough to slip off in my sleep and I reckon that’s the way I’ll go. Slip away and float into the arms of Jesus, my rock and my stay, mostly. There was years when I treated him rough, faulted him for the ways of men. Spittin image, they say we are, and if that’s right you can see why I held him no count. But the fires in my man—that took him to other beds and sometimes not even that, a pile of leaves in the woods or a heap of hay in the field— that vexed me so, finally died down, and I drew him back in with naught but a thread of hope. In the ashes I found a gratefulness not there before. What had divided us, we crossed on slippery rocks til we met in the middle and I had to turn back and look at that no count Jesus. “Well, come on then. You might as well come on home too.”
Appalachian Review – University of North Carolina Press
Published: Aug 31, 2012
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