Country Prayers: Di Maiores
Holy are my mother’s country 45s;
holy is the dust of ages caught within their grooves.
Holy, Mr. Haggard’s holy voice, the way the air beyond
the open face of his glittering guitar glitters, too—
holy is the way it glitters, too.
Holy are the Carters, Jim Ed Brown—
holy is their god and sorrow, their hard and ugly holler.
Holy, oh holy, is lonely, low Hank Williams;
holy is the lonely angel he’s become.
And holy am I! How holy I am here
as though destined to be here and be here holy.
Holy how I listen now and slip into
this holy heavy sadness of my mother’s holy country songs.
Holy, oh holy, am I. Holy, she who bore me.
Holy Hank, holy Haggard. Holy memory of Johnny Cash—
heartbroken holy man, come back.
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