This last one I'm going to read is from "Trailer Trash"
and is called "Chapel."
OK.
Not a word was a word.
The book disagrees.
I lived by this.
I still live by this.
I did not have a throat boiled with song.
Years ago, I entered a storage shed, a chapel of untouchables.
My mother had left behind many words, journals
with 22 years of silt coating.
Books, not books I'd choose, not lullabies.
She seemed to see my life before my eyes opened, put down a road,
and left me there.