Michigan: A Short Subjective History

Always wear gloves when handling lanterns,

good boots in spring, cowls or hoods in fall.

Mothers kill,

that is what I know.

Fathers carry vinyl primer and epoxy out to the slipway.

I played cards with my father, we lit the diamonds.

Mother was the ace of spades, a concentrated gravity.

Only flame can light a lantern, though fuels vary.

Throw flour on a grease fire,

tarpaulins across fresh graves.

On the water, my father and I, 

we kept our lights above the horizon.

Mother called me by the wrong name

and sent hook-tides to force me back.

There was no electricity,

she had stolen voltage from the fuse box to commit suicide. 

My brothers arranged the funeral, one sad, one stoic.

I danced a sailor's hornpipe,

one arm in the air,

the other on my hip.

Later, I sat on a rock in the rain like a mermaid.

Wear oilskin for weather, tie your hair back for wind.

Cry if you need to while cleaning the oarlocks,

and recite by rote the lakes you know 

by temperature, reputation, and depth.

________

for Sunday Muse #129.