Final Girl on Appalachia

H/t to Pank.

Why I Stay

Final Girl

Three brown tires are on the bank of the riv­er, like shells would be on the beach of anoth­er place. This is not that place.

It is hard to deny some of the beau­ty of Appalachia: rolling roads, haze on the fields, morn­ing-green hills, hors­es. Oth­er beau­ty is tricky. You have to train your eye—or, you have to have a cer­tain eye already.

I don’t believe the bro­ken-down bus mars the sun­set. I think it makes it, morn­ing glo­ry twist­ing around the rims. Poke­ber­ries stain the farm­house pur­ple; we threw them against its side. There is a kind of beau­ty in giv­ing up. There is a sort of joy in why the hell not.

After all, there are cans in the weeds. Bones in the woods. Burned-out sheds in the shad­ows. So: low to the ground, by cig­a­rette butts, I glue on the wall hand-paint­ed leaves.

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