The Prettiest Star

by Carter Sickels

another faggot taking up bed space.

Mamaw suggests we sit on the porch to watch the world go by.

I could pray. Should pray. The words won’t come. The house groans. My muscles burn. Last week, Reverend Clay came by, but Lettie wouldn’t let him in. She told him Brian was sleeping. “Lettie, is he right with the Lord?” he asked urgently. Lettie said she wanted to spit in his face. Furious, she told him her grandson was more right with God than most people in Chester, including him and his son. I don’t ask God to forgive Brian anymore. I ask him to forgive me, to forgive his father.

I want to believe there is a God and heaven and continual life. But all I see right now is the pain of the body.