midsagital dissection
this human split in half
an existential opposition
my blood separates on mounted horses
when given questionable blankets
antistoichon scales do not balance
when the hemispheres of my brain consider
a length of yarn that traveled
seventy years from the eastern
kentucky mountains
the cherokee word is asgina
a human ghost
last of her kind
amidst the southern baptists
climbing mazlos’s chart to acceptance
the need to belong
and not die alone
to reach some sort of heaven
a summerland with open arms
she arrived in the 1940’s
upon the doorstep
of my great grandfather’s
sermon
a church he made a pilgrimage
to save once a month
deep within the hills from whence he came
after they planted tobacco in virginia
isn’t it always about the road home
she walked down the middle of a sunday morning aisle
pleading in her native tongue
crying and pointing upward
my ancestor ministered soft tones
and brought about calm
she motioned for him to follow her outside
he complied
the sheep too followed the shepherd of god
all the while she chanted
she dropped to her knees
making a circle of dry leaves upon the ground
3 feet in diameter
she then walked to seek a rock to turn over
plunging her hands into her peoples earth
she stooped to conquer a worm
pulled it away from its destiny
and returned before the congregation
to the mysterious terrestrial ring
a flint appeared
setting fire to the circle
tears rolling down her cheeks
she gestured to
the worm
the fire
then herself
dropping the squirm into
the fiery damnation
then fetched it from the flames
reverend c.c. bates then explained to his flock
she wanted to be saved from their hell
let us take her to the water
some other Fishing Creek homeland
maybe it was whitesburg
that’s where the bates’ are from in Letcher County
full submersion faith
he cleansed her of collective sins
as the choir sang the old rugged cross
she exchanged her medicine bag for a thorny crown
rose from the water
rejoicing full of embraces
she laughed
at the telling
i cry
but
i’m glad uncle ronnie
stays
when the preacher is done
for the
fried chicken and harvey house cole slaw
served with
the ancient memories of
84 year old bard historians
who lived
to tell a grandson