The Trailer

Jesus lives in a trailer in Welch

From JENNIFER KEENER:

Jesus lives in a trailer in Welch
where the water runs the color of weak tea
through fake metal faucets.

Some mornings it comes out orange.
Some mornings black.
Some mornings smelling like rotten eggs and iron,
like the inside of an old mine
still breeding underground.

And the women there know
to let it run awhile first.

They stand barefoot on linoleum curling at the edges,
listening to pipes cough awake inside the walls,
watching the sink spit brown water
into pots they will boil anyway.

Because children still need baths.
Beanie Weenies still need cooked.
Life does not pause itself
for poisoned water.

Jesus lives there.

Not in the church up on the hill
with the glowing cross
and fresh blacktop parking lot.

He lives lower down,
where floodwater gathers old tires and beer cans,
where trailers lean against the mud
like tired men trying not to fall asleep standing up.

He lives where the fishes and loaves gave up years ago.

His mama buys bottled water with EBT when she can.
He used to get a Coca-Cola every now and then,
but the state took that too.

They have concerns for His health,
He laughs.

Jesus brushes His teeth
with water that leaves orange rings in the sink.

At school they tell Him
water is life.

But His water eats through pipes.

His water leaves rashes.
His water tastes like pennies
held too long in the mouth.

And all across these mountains
people have learned to swallow things
that should never have been called normal.

The politicians come during election years
wearing clean shoes.

They shake hands smelling of bleach and cigarettes.
They say resilient
like it is a compliment.

They do not drink the water.

Resilience is just survival
nobody bothered to rescue.

Jesus knows this.

He sits outside evenings
on a sagging porch with a busted railing,
listening to cicadas scream themselves empty in the trees.

The mountains rise dark and enormous around Him,
beautiful enough to humble the son of God,
holding coal beneath them
like a secret that costs too much.

The air smells like wet dirt and diesel fuel,
like creek mud turned over by floodwater,
like mildew creeping soft through old carpet.

And Jesus drinks Kool-Aid
made from contaminated taps
because the legislature says
we cannot afford much this session.

He helps old miners,
their lungs sounding like gravel roads,
fill gallon jugs at roadside springs,
trusting mountains more than governments now.

They let Him steer the truck.

He watches another boil-water advisory
crawl across the television screen
like a bad weather warning.

He knows.

And sometimes, late at night,
when the trailer settles deep into itself
and the pipes begin their haunted knocking,
when the propane heater clicks,
the box fan hums,
and a Pentecostal mosquito rattles in the window screen,

Jesus presses His ear
against the cool metal sink
like He is listening
for the prosperity they promised these people.

But all He hears
is rust.

---

The West Virginia Holler