Ohio Connections Literary Exhibit
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Upon Leaving Martin’s Ferry, Ohio
By Philip Terman
The late November grass
holds onto its green,
layers the small hills
that rise and fall
like Indian mounds.
The sky is blue
as the eyes of Jesus
who hangs in Salvation
Army windows on every
main street along this
Bible belt. We listened
to you breathe in
deep and slowly release
the smoke, gray as the river
below your hometown.
Your hand twitched, the ash
lengthened as you lost
yourself in your own words,
speaking of the state
I’m looking out into:
I still dream of home.
We are in the same myth.
And we who want to die
an easy death will abandon
our bodies to the cancer
in a hospital far from home.
Everybody back in Columbus
is watching the game. If we win,
we’ll tear down the goalposts,
spill out in one body
like a cult caught up in a ritual,
in love with each other, briefly.
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