Church for the Disliked
On the turnpike, the smell of a heaven
made out of old barn wood
from Okmulgee.
Handles and rungs
cut from a fat farmer’s leather belt.
In the eastern counties,
coffins raced uphill, moving on hay bales
and billiard balls.
Charon paid for everyone at the I-44 tollbooth.
On the North Canadian,
comforts of a widower’s loneliness
floated on pontoons.
Time balanced on a fish egg.
In the city, violins violated jackhammers.
At the refuge, night is the church for the disliked.
I go to baptize the plants,
horns, and rain.
I have passed through
many different Oklahoma statehoods.
Copyright © 2020 by Sy Hoahwah. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on April 24, 2020 by the Academy of American Poets.
“Thinking I will be going back to Oklahoma to visit family in the near future, but I don't. Something always comes up. The only time I make it out that way is for funerals. There are many layers of Oklahoma to go through to get to these funerals.”
—Sy Hoahwah
Sy Hoahwah
Sy Hoahwah earned an MFA from the University of Arkansas and is the author of two books of poetry, most recently Night Cradle (USPOCO Books, 2011). He is Yapaituka Comanche/Southern Arapaho.