Monday, November 27, 2006


May heathens roast in hell like chickens on a slow cooker,

prays my Sunday School teacher. I see Homer
Lee Masters, splayed on a grill, fingers dangling
over coals. Hear him crying like a shot dog.

Sweet Jesus, cleanse Homer of whiskey and loose women,

she asks at Easter, warning us about the sin
of slow dancing like that hussy Salome.
I see Mama lean on a gentle wind, swaying
in the kitchen to Sinatra’s croon

I’ve got you under my skin, deep in the heart of me.

Nobody’s going to shame my mama
so I beg Sweet Jesus for an angel
to swoop down and carry that teacher away
drop her in a fire with slow-cooking chickens.

Chella Courington
From _Oregon East Magazine_ (vol. 37, 2006)


Anonymous said...

dearest Chella,
thank you for your words of wisdom and inspiration. :)

Rebekah said...

Yea! Chella posted again!

Love love love this one. Humor and nostalgia...

Brandon said...

Oh wow! That got me with the first line! This poem is absolutely fabulous! I am so going to bookmark it!