Joshua Heston

“Give us this day our daily bread…” The rains were heavy that spring of my 16th year, and the gooseberry brambles plentiful with green fruit. Dark skies blocked out the May sun and I kept my worn-out green flannel shirt close by, wet-tinged breeze still biting as I threw hay to the goats. I was old for my years and far too young, unsure of myself, and staring down the barrel of a world that didn’t quite square with who I was.   “Honk, honk, honk!” Our neighbor Cindy was driving her green...

I was assigned the poem by my arts instructor, a harebrained faculty member in tweed who kept changing the rules every time she lost sight of the curriculum.

The sun sets on the just and the unjust alike. I turn up my collar, and turn off the truck ignition.