Roadkill twitches
on the side
of unpaved roads
and churches sit
on left and right
ten feet apart
all claiming to worship
the same god
under a different name.

You can always tell
who grew up where
because holler folk
smell like moonshine
and cigarettes
and all the rich ones
smell of the same
overpriced
Vanilla Bean
hand sanitizer. 

I am living
in a false Appalachia,
a caricature of
the most beautiful place
on Earth,
because the Appalachia
I know
is sprawling mountains
from one horizon
to the other
and trees that turn golden
in the fall.
It is the sound of snapping twigs
at twilight
and lightning bugs
floating above fields
like little green stars,
twinkling in and out
and over and over.

The Appalachia I live in
is drug addiction
and urbanization,
the loss of those golden trees
in favor of cookie cutter houses
with square yards
and no horses.

My old Kentucky home
is at the edge of the mountains,
just out of reach
and I see them,
long for them,
belong to them.
I have been there
and they sing to me,
lull me with their melodies
and whisper to me
their secrets.

They tell me of labor,
broken backs
and withered, leathery skin
that has seen the sun
too long.
They serenade me with
shrieking laughter
and the cries of coyotes
and bobcats.

I will always pine
for the forests, trees,
and rolling landscapes–
but for now,
I must be content
here
in almost Appalachia.