Real Love
A Kentucky poet sings solidarity to the landscape, language, and love that claim her.
APPALACHIAN DIRT
At eighteen, it was time to go—
there’s no future for a woman in the hills—
itching to leave since birth,
now my bare feet couldn’t take a step.
I would miss those redbud springs,
the muddy summers, of course,
our two straws peeking out of an autumn lemonade,
and your hand in mine on a winter walk.
I would miss the accent
dripping from the ends of my words—
the one I couldn’t find beautiful
until you called me darlin’.
Mostly, I would miss your
strong hands tangled in my hair,
tracing my curves against the mountain
landscape, lying in the bed of your truck.
I’m no expert, but real love
is not the thrill of a four wheeler
racing through the mountains
upset by each dip in the path ahead.
Real love is like mud—
consistent, constant.
And I will love you,
as long as there’s dirt.
AMAZON FACTORY TOWNS
“Plentiful new jobs at higher wages in places with cheaper housing sounds like a solution to inequality.”
—Conor Sen, The Bloomberg Opinion, 2021
Coal dust swirls in circles on the shower floor,
a bottle of Jim Beam sits on the tub ledge,
joints creak and moan from standing upright
dug unfor the first time since the morning.
“Uncle Sam needs that extra shovelful,”
so Harlan County sits on the tracks—
not permitting that black gold to leave its home.
dug unThat is my home.
A home long picked over by the Big Man:
a land of extraction, exploitation, and expiration
where money only buys those bareback items
dug unwhile Miss Dolly sings “9 to 5.”
A home where the men all live underground
and the women pray on the surface,
and the youngins play in the empty houses
dug unafter a mine collapse.
Did the Big Man see my grandmother sew flour sack dresses—
see her dig through the garden, on her knees
praying that her double wedding ring quilt
dug unwon’t be torn down the middle?
Now the Big Man’s gonna lift the working class,
but are we on the ground?
Big Man, don’t you remember?
dug unYou forced us underground.
And not LBJ waging imaginary wars
nor some other Big Man can keep us out of that hole.
I know one thing for certain:
can’t build no economy at the company store.
So keep your factories, Big Man.
I’ll keep my purple mountains,
my safe place carved from hillsides—
dug under the surface by my grandfather
dug unand his father.
I’ll keep my promises of watching over
the land that claimed me from my birth.
I’ll keep her safe from you, Big Man.
I DO IT FOR YOU
I lay in your arms
I lay inndrinking the sweaty motor oil
smell on your old t-shirt
I lay innwhile dirty hands left black prints
on my jawline and shoulders
I lay inneven after you’d had a shower
but I don’t mind a little graffiti.
I asked you once with eyelashes
I lay innbrushing against your cheek
why you had worked so hard
I lay innmaking a young body old
knees popping years before
I lay innyour hairline slid back.
In a voice more sincere than death:
I lay innI do it for you
but I never asked for that.
Hailing from the hills of Hazard, Kentucky, Eleni Karelis grew up with a fascination in the tradition of Appalachian storytelling. As a poet, she is particularly interested in writing about a modern Appalachia that contradicts stereotypical depictions. She received her BA with Honors in English at the University of Kentucky in May 2023 and is currently working towards her MA in Creative Writing at the University of Westminster in London, England. Check out more of her work at Still: The Journal.