Years before I was born, someone erected
the three crosses that stood on KY-490:
two in white and the center cross yellow.
For years, I believed that was where Jesus died, 
off a two-lane state highway a couple miles away
from the trailer we’d carried from next to the kennels
to a little glen and its woods behind it.
Further down the road, my grandparents’ farm
and the little holiness church we attended–
and this patch of Earth felt as big as the world, 
as ineffable and ancient as time–three cable channels
and worn VHS a portal to some kind of future.