The Preacher by Melissa Chappell

after Gillian Welch and David Rawling “Tennessee”

Through the brittle air the Preacher calls down the raptures.

Come to Jesus, ye sinner, turn from your transgression!

Turn! Turn! Lest the fires of hell await you!

The words pounded her ears the way he thumped

the ragged black Book.

And all you pretty little girls out there who haven’t

been to the River! The Lord knows what you do!

Fornicators, all of you! Get ye to the Lord and

confess on your knees what you’ve done! A smile

chased a butterfly across her lips, for in the red

clay behind her homestead, a young man

from Georgia had taught her to sing hallelujahs on

her knees. The Preacher’s eyes burned brimstone

as he looked her way, mopping his brow, thin

lips wet as a kiss. The Enoree would not be troubled

on that day. Alone, the Preacher, in white shirt drenched

with agonies, dropped to his knees, reclusive redemption,

forgiveness, at a distance, for someone else,

singing his confessions, kissing an imagined chalice,

holding tasteless wine.