Hell is Real (Poetry)

When the sun came up and the sky was green

we sat on the front porch rocking chairs,

My father’s coffee in his hands with steam cutting through November.

No other Silence exists in my memory so prominently.

It hangs in my throat like the wedding dress caught in the tallest sweetgum.

I always wondered if the Bride found out

Or if she ended up miles away,

placed carefully between I-65 and the sign that reads “Hell Is Real.”

Hell wasn’t on my mind back then.

I was more worried about what was above,

Wore my bike helmet with my sister when climbing through the neighborhood,

A true act of caution and distrust for falling branches.

I still fear destruction.

Even when I have seen the way we rebuild.

I still fear the wind picking up.

Even when I feel the roof still intact above me.

I still dream I’m running through empty houses down streets I vaguely remember.

Hiding from windows and stopping in front of mirrors.

I wish the ground wasn’t so fucking wet

So I could dig a basement with my fingernails.