I grew up in southeastern Kentucky near Straight Creek, a…
You’ve already forgotten why you’ve come. Why you left
the mountains to be swallowed whole by kudzu, to become
a wanderer in a desert of hand-scrawled signs, each one
a temptation or a prayer: Watermellons. Stop. Tomatos.
Here. There is no one place, only places scattered along the
falling highway, as if each produce stand and clapboard
church meant to climb the mountain but never made it.