I learned what a bullet does to a back, to a mother.
After every funeral it rains, I was told that’s God crying in Youngsville.
My uncle walked our holed streets until he died sun soaked, broken in,
left me young boy and bitter in Youngsville.
Hallelujahs knocked on screen doors, let the lord in.
We stood on porches and watched the saved stitch wings in Youngsville.
Black berries hung in my aunt's back yard where we cut
the asshole off a trout, guts laid on a cutting board in Youngsville.
We were told a storm was a sermon,
lightning horse whips the sky, milks rain in Youngsville.