issue 30 > poetry > smith

By Coleman light, due to weather,
Brother Dewey Crosby smiles
as he frails the Gibson Vintage,
and his fingers are fewer
than the commandments, his teeth
as white as lambs, feet
shuffling in half-time
with the healing hymn.

“I’d rather be good than lucky,
Praise Jesus in Glory,”
he whines in his fractured tenor,
while his fingers pick like fury,
and the church house shakes
like a loom room at Draper
to “Shall We Gather at the River.”

Despite the surprising ice
that shut the power down,
he smiles in outlaw bliss
more peaceful than any waters
calmed by the Savior,
as just two feet away
a lively copperhead coils
atop the auburn hair
of Sister Belle McCaffrey
down for the revival
from Dwarf, Kentucky
and joyfully ready
to feel the Spirit sparkle
and show her a sign.






Also by R.T. Smith:

Resolution