These hills don’t rise fast,
they lean with a story in every hollow,
spoken through woodsmoke
and the groan of screen doors
On his porch, a man smokes beside a cooler,
his shirt open,
a small child curled asleep on his chest,
like a loaf of warm bread
He nods at my passing;
we’ve both found something
we’re not ready to discuss
Rusted trucks bloom
in the margins of fields,
ferns growing through their floorboards
Even the forgotten things
are held here with care
I cross from dry county
to wet county
to “DRIVE THRU—CASH ONLY” county
I feel weightless here,
like I’ve skipped class,
but been forgiven for it
The day that started off blue,
now closes in red,
as it hushes over the ridges
Somewhere behind me,
a porch light flickers on,
and I am still making my way home
If you say it three times,
you become it—
leatherwood, leatherwood, leatherwood
Allen Kenneth Schaidle’s (he/him) work is deeply rooted in the landscapes and rhythms of rural America. Hailing from the Illinois countryside of Worth Township, Allen holds the banks of Blue Creek and the forests of Illinois close to his heart. Today, he finds a new sense of belonging in the Ozark Mountains of Arkansas.
