No miracle beyond the fact
that when the gasses massed
and blew a hole in the elevator,
killing three, he’d been stuck
in the field, fixing a cranky axle,
his grain truck unmovable.
And the next day, only singed
when a sudden storm sent
lightning through the tractor cab.
His Dekalb cap consumed
by flames, his balding scalp
On the third day, he heard
the voice of God stutter
from a hornet’s nest and reached
a hand to touch the mouth.
And the hornets did attack,
but the stings lacked any venom.
The neighbors whispered then
about luck and cheated death.
They made more visits to the man
in hopes their own bruised bodies
might find relief. When that failed,
they began to pray
for this man’s early death, to speed
the time to sainthood
when they could skim the mystery
from the relic of his bones,
hold it between their teeth and taste
the light his body had foretold.
Sandy Longhorn is the author of Blood Almanac (Anhinga Press), which won the Anhinga Prize for Poetry. New poems are forthcoming or have appeared recently in Adanna, Escape Into Life, Lake Effect, New South, South Dakota Review, and elsewhere. Longhorn lives in Little Rock, AR, is an Arkansas Arts Council fellow, and blogs at Myself the only Kangaroo among the Beauty.