Mrs. Johnson Reads a Note from Billy
I hate sports. It's got little to do with anything but personality.
I'm not fond of bluegrass and country music. A bit of Bach,
though, that can sooth the soul better than wind whistling
to the tune of a train or dust dancing behind a John Deere.
I didn't have the right to hate it here so much, but there it is.
A barn party out in BFE just don't do much for a gay kid.
You know how Brother Lucas is always talking about sin
and salvation like they're two different sides of a deer-hide
drum? I thought about that some and decided that rural life
just didn't make sense anymore. Take two steps out the door
and you'll see three teen mothers and somebody's beaten wife,
a hunting trip gone wrong, and miles of tumbleweed hypocrisy.
So last week I wrote a letter to Shepherd because it didn't seem
right to leave without telling him how I feel. I used my nicest
handwriting so I'm pretty sure he'll think it's a girl who sent it.
I wouldn't want him to face a world that knew his secret
admirer was a farm boy and a liar who felt like he had to dance
twice with Carrie and spend the night to prove he was a man.
Mom, I hope the blood went down the drain easy enough.
I tried not to make too much of a mess, knowing you'd be
the one who had to clean it up. Jesus knows Pa's half useless
that way. Don't you let him say this is your fault, neither.
You're the only one anywhere that ever loved
me for who I am and not who you wished I would be.
--Larina Warnock
