Micah is off to England soon where he'll continue his studies in Old English... and likely write more poems than ever about his West Virginia home.
Here's one we're particularly fond of.
On every son are hooks in trees, and cords.
Among the birch and oak I learned to look
for darting fur and rustling leaves. I learned
to listen—antlers cracking trunks—to kill.
Beside our house, a Christian place endures
a clumsy grace, a pastor drawing hell
in sharpie during sermon. Glowing night
enclosed another Sunday spent away.
We could go off the grid. The basement holds
enough to feed a fighting force of men.
And Dad would lay up on the roof and scope
the streets. I feel a need for death in him.
I may not pray to father's God. But I
was made from coal and grime. I breathe, I stand.
Congratulations, Micah! Send us a good old-fashioned postcard!