A big part of my story as an atheist is leaving the conservative rural area where I grew up. It’s often the focus in my poetry.

In the Back of a Pick-Up

Brittle bones chilled
beneath frost moon eyes –
she clings to the bed of a truck.
Sticky pebbles cling to the hungry tires –
rough road ahead.
Pink sunset flickers
through the singing leaves above.
Alfalfa fields pass by in a blur.
She tightens her grip
as her curls sail in the wind.
She’s imprisoned by a home with the biggest sky
but barely a pinprick on the map.
One day despair will grow wings
and a sheltered childhood will fuel her adventures.
She shivers in the cold
and never looks back.