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      August 4, 2021The Whole Shebang Up for DebateKari Gunter-Seymour

      Today I gave a guy a ride,
      caught in a cloudburst
      jogging down East Mill Street.
      Skinny, backpacked, newspaper
      a makeshift shield, unsafe
      under any circumstances.
      I don’t know what possessed me.
       
      I make bad decisions, am forgetful,
      cling to structure and routine
      like static electricity to polyester,
      a predicament of living under
      the facade I always add to myself.
       
      Said he needed to catch a GoBus,
      shaking off droplets before climbing in.
      He gabbed about Thanksgiving plans,
      his mom’s cider-basted turkey,
      grandma’s pecan-crusted pumpkin pie.
       
      It was a quick, masked ride.
      Bless you, he said, unfolding himself
      from the car. No awkward goodbyes,
      no what do I owe you? Just Bless you
      and a backward wave.
       
      At the stop sign, my fingers stroked
      the dampness where he sat minutes before.
      Sometimes life embraces you
      so unconditionally, it shifts
      your body from shadow
      into a full-flung lotus of light.

      from #72 – Summer 2021

      Kari Gunter-Seymour

      “I come from a long line of self-sufficient, resourceful, hardworking people. As far as poetry is concerned, my work is Appalachian through and through. Growing up near my grandparents’ farm in the very small village of Amesville, Ohio, I was sheltered. We all had a bit of twang in our voice; we were all kinds of colors and shapes; and we didn’t care because we all grew up together. A lot of people don’t even know that about a quarter of Ohio is in Appalachia proper, and that there are pockets of Appalachians throughout Ohio, those who out-migrated north to find work just before, during, and after World War II.”

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