“The sticks.” by James Barrett Rodehaver

When you’re out in the sticks - the woods are a fortress - sunlight stabs down at you in bright daggers - I bet no one told you how a canopy is like armor.

I had a place in the woods where rules couldn’t touch me -

little warrior boy with sticks beating up all the full grown men that ever left mama broken.

On the ground with a jar of bugs - benevolent demigod me who only knew enough to tear out earthy pieces of the woods and shove them in.

Love is often a tearing away - open heart surgery featuring pieces of us that don’t fit - and a partner who can play dead really well.

I played house - made a time machine too - went back in time - made mistakes - I must have - how else did playing house get so hard all of a sudden - why else would everything be my fault?

I preached in two different churches at the age of eight. I forgot the God is love part - was too busy memorizing bible verses - writing fire and brimstone sermons.

Whenever I was on my way to an ass whooping - I always wished I was someone else - someone strong enough to put the switch down.

Did you know hide and seek isn’t fun at all - if one person suddenly decides they don’t wanna play anymore?

When you grow up and the woods can’t hide you - you learn to disappear on the inside - you try and make yourself a fortress.

Best I could muster was a jar of ripped up roots and leaves - with a bug that knew how small he was - who was much loved - until the day he wanted out.

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James Barrett Rodehaver called us from Dallas, TX.

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