THREADCOUNT

Self-portrait through Absolutes

There’s only one way to skin a deer, no matter how many knives your daddy sharpens. There’s only one way to heaven, but Jesus wept on my map and now everything looks like Oregon. There’s only room for one savior in this house, but I’m here ‘til sundown Sunday when his visitation rights expire.

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Self-portrait from the Mouth of the River

I poked holes in the tarp roof of the tent, spent summers sleeping riverside asking everything of stars. I skipped rocks I named before freeing, flinging them downstream. If this was my only prayer, the white water chatter drowned it out. If this was my only prayer, it never skimmed the surface—it was the unbudged boulder in a dreamless slumber wedged in the riverbed.