Flatwoods, Kentucky

A poet friend once gave me a book:
Crystals for Everyday Living.

I read,
created in the dark heart of the earth.

She is from Pennsylvania and I am from
Kentucky, so I thought coal, I thought Santa –

like the table filled with red-shorted Santas
at their June coffee shop club meeting
that invited me to become Mrs. Claus.
While flattered, I demurred because

I am not demure;
I am naughty, lump
shoved in a stocking’s toe.
Lump,

like the one in my throat after
I corrected Daddy’s “Appa-laysh-uh”
with a snapped “Appa-latch-uh”
like I knew better –

like he didn’t just bury the only son he created
in the dark heart of the earth.