Arm Road

by: Kimmy Howell

Deep within the southernmost part of Mississippi, 
In a little town called Monticello 
Not to be confused with Thomas Jefferson’s Monticello 
We don’t even pronounce it right 
In a small, three-bedroom trailer, surrounded by pine 
That my father planted when I was five, 
I watched them grow into the giants they are today 
Within the pine woods, a tree house, now filled with wasp nests 
Trails where my sisters and I would ride the four-wheeler for hours at a time 
Under the unrelenting sun 
That blistered us for all but two months of the year 
Every Sunday at Hepzibah Baptist Church singing hymnals 
Afterwards eating one of Mrs. Nora’s casseroles 
And braving through the charred crusts for fear of hurting her feelings 
Where everyone knew everyone and nothing went unnoticed 
Did you hear that Amy is sleeping with Macy’s husband? 
A place where venturing past the status quo got you ostracized 
You wouldn’t want to be known as the blue-haired liberal 
You must think like me, talk like me, walk like me 
A single red-light town; nothing to do, nothing to see