A sigh creates St. Helens’ ash
swallowing weeks old milk
and grandpa’s leather recliner
into the heart of a midwest
false-spring downpour.
Rotting corn clambers
in the twisted vines of
our alcoholic priest’s private
plot of water-logged soil.
Shutters dance maniacally,
and beer caps clang like chimes.
The rain tastes like melting metal.
It worms its way past chipped
merry-go-rounds and into
St. Daniel’s thick, amber blood.
Barefoot going 70 over speedbumps
in Babylon. Shorts in winter,
prayer-bruised knees. Bombing
down man-made mountains,
rabid sheppards at our goat tails.
The town smells like cow shit,
and we gladly smoke it into
our St. Philomena lungs. Weeds tickle
flushed red noses. Rosary beads
roll across termite-infested,
wrap-around porches. Lemonade
tastes like a dollar-fifty
and drive-through liquor stores.
A church parking lot at midnight.
Staring at cornfields and pointing at cows.
Bellamy Rump is a queer, neurodivergent author and poet that writes about whatever topic is most heavily on their mind at the moment. They attend the University of Nebraska Omaha where they are in the process of obtaining a Creative Writing degree with a concentration in fiction and poetry, as well as a minor in History. They are a part of the Honors Program and participate regularly in the university’s writing club.
Absolutely amazing!