Leaving Louisville

meant arriving by train in the womb / of a womb / of a womb / sharing nothing in common but a
chin / leaving Louisville is familial treason because saying where you’re from has morphed / into
reassurance / Louisville is not the South / is not the coal mines—because the train tracks are
filled with asphalt / and lead to an eroded / sidewalk that asks you to stay / you wish they cut
back on the salt in the winter / you’ll wanna smoke the trail of cigarette buds / like a chimney
and call it / hearth smoke / like you know the shape of tobacco leaves / which everyone will soon
assume you had growing / in your backyard / what they won’t expect you to have is a lighter / or
shoes / leaving Louisville will make you wanna spread your legs and smell the ocean / as if that
was where they birthed you / but you only smell a river / even the water stays still / and asks you
politely not to leave: you think of the girl you said you’d marry / who you leave now for a girl
who has everything in common with you except Louisville / she’ll ask you about Kentucky / and
you’ll confess you’ve never been / to that one / you’ll take her to what she insists must be your
home / and you’ll read the tourist’s pamphlet / aloud to yourself / and she’ll think you’re reciting
/ she’ll be asleep in the back seat when you arrive / because she was waiting for the gravel roads
to wake her up / they’ve paved another layer since you left / she’ll ask you what to name the
baby girl / and you’ll say Louisville / so she knows where she was supposed to come from /
you’ll want to rub your palms with coal / and press your ear to the ground / to hear the train
coming back

Sam Baker is an author of poetry, fiction, and essays from Louisville, Kentucky. He currently reads for the Adroit Journal and the Kenyon Review. Baker's reads have been published in The Pinch Literary Journal, The Stockholm Review, and elsewhere.