Laura DeHart Young
Used to Be Sundays
She exited the highway outside of Detroit,
rolling into a Pilot
on a Sunday in October.
Parked at the far end of the lot,
she watched a crowd
of truckers
gather to hear the preacher
from Truck Stop Ministries.
She didn't listen.
Thought instead about the Sundays
when a skillet sizzled
with scrambled eggs and bacon
by nine
and the aroma of coffee
met her on the stairs.
The sounds of dishes
and silverware being set.
That had been her gospel,
her answered prayer.
Now Sundays meant long-hauling
or bobtailing
to a stop
marked on her route,
no one to talk to,
just channel 19
on the CB.
Weather updates, road conditions.
Static and miles.
She sipped cold coffee
with powdered creamer,
stared at a stale cheese Danish.
Caught some sun in the passenger seat—
knees warm in the windshield’s glare.
The parking lot service ended—
not to organ music or chiming bells.
To an unheard benediction
and the scrape of boots
on blessed gravel.
~
Stacked Wood
The axe handle fit my hands—
smooth pine,
a duct-taped grip.
The blade—
sharp,
clean bevel.
Sweat in the air—
smoky resin.
A faint grunt with each hit,
the wood’s cold math.
Heart split,
tumbling aside.
Next piece to the block.
Wind kicked up; leaves skittered.
A blue jay screeched in the pines.
Just the maul,
and the fall of autumn,
the timber silent.
Heavy wood for the base:
thick pieces for the ends,
crisscrossed layers—
bark up.
Space for air, a breath—
heat from the sun.
Each log was just the next one.
The pile demanded nothing of me.
And the fire never asked who gathered it.
Laura DeHart Young is a queer poet and novelist living in Atlanta. Her work has appeared in Macrame Literary Journal, The Book of Matches, Does It Have Pockets, Thimble, The Loch Raven Review, Last Leaves Magazine, and elsewhere. Laura is the author of seven novels, originally published by Naiad Press. A new edition of her novel, Private Passions, will be published in 2027.
