The Only Holy

by Justin Hunt

 

I expect nothing of the other side, 
if that’s what death is—some other 

side of being. I’m inclined 
to believe it’s mere cessation, 

an absence of words, no breath.
Sky and rain, rock, soil and flesh, 

my wife’s touch, our son’s 
weathered grave—surely these 

are the true gods, the only holy. 
When I die, lay me in a ditch 

by a dirt road. Let me rot in the sun 
of a younger man’s summer—

among the weeds that swayed, 
once, in the wind of my longing. 

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Justin Hunt grew up in rural Kansas and lives in Charlotte, NC. His work has won several awards and appears (or is forthcoming) in The New Ohio Review, Chautauqua, Arts & Letters, The Atlanta Review, South Dakota Review, The Florida Review, Dogwood, The Live Canon Anthology (UK), Strokestown Poetry Anthology (Ireland) and Spoon River Poetry Review, among other journals and publications. Hunt’s memoir, Dominoes Are Played at Joe’s Place, was a finalist in the 2018 William Faulkner – William Wisdom Creative Writing Competition.