Copper Country

 It's beautiful up there, and you shone.

At home on the rocky shores of Lake Superior,

I was a smooth stone for skipping; you were sunlight on the water.

What I didn't understand was the night that far north.

Red-haired, speaking with a hint of Quebecois,

you drew me immediately, because I was little rocks beneath the tide

and mistook you for sunrise and a pleasant peninsula.

What I didn't understand was Gichigami's jealous nature.

Any geologist sitting on a stool in any tavern in copper country

can tell you that a rock can be both solid and fragile.

He could describe the smooth, sharp, shell-like fractures

called conchoidal. But he is drinking, leave him be. 

I brought heft with me, I thought, cases of books

and a hard restlessness, cold to the touch and longing not to be.

Laying eyes in you, I sensed your spark and mistook it for warmth.

Copper conducts, it borrows, it doesn't hold a damn thing.

I am a little of this, a little of that--a collector, I carry some of everything

that has ever touched me. I am worlds, a common rock, a human.

You are what you are, pure in your own denying way, charged but empty.

What I didn't see then was that I was seeking brightness down a shaft.

We lay together in the cooling nights, the snow came, ten-twelve feet.

I thought I was strong, and that you were worth every devotion,

but I was flint, cracking and stabbing as we loved, and you were 

never meant to be moved, turning weedy green in the northern air.

I miss copper country. It's real, though mined out now. I've moved south,

grown older, living alone, staring into the fridge at midnight as if at stars.

And you? You dug in deeper, a disused light on the shore, pretty and dark.

What I didn't understand was that we would hurt each other so much,

and that it would matter so little. The indifferent lake still shines and sighs.

__________________

for my friend Dora at Dverse Poetics: Lyric Petrologies

My father was fascinated with the history of our state, and took me with him all over, explaining and teaching as we went. There is nothing quite like being taught by a teacher who loves his subject. 

Michigan's state motto is, "If you seek a pleasant peninsula, look about you."

Lake Superior is vast, and always cold. The shores are rocky. Its wild, careless beauty is easy to fall in love with, and it does not care that you are there.

Music: Megan Dixon Hood "Drown"

Re: Staircase

 

STOP ALL WORK IMMEDIATELY PLEASE READ AND COMPLY

• City building permit not obtained/posted. 
• only union certified workmen may be hired for your project.
• project (decorative stairs) is not uniform. All risers must be level. Tripping hazards will be cited. 
• hand rails are required as per city safety regulations
• construction in unzoned areas must be approved by board
• all noxious plants, weeds, and unmown grasses must be removed. After six (6) months, the city will intervene and the cost added to your taxes
• proof of residence/authority to alter property must be presented. See Table B for necessary documents. 
• stairs to nowhere in a bunch of trees. really? 
• wtf is your problem?
• wtf is wrong with you?
• please correct these issues no later than ten (10) days after receipt of this notice. Failure to do so will result in fines, forfeiture of lands, and/or public hanging.
• Have a nice day!

CITY OF DUCKBURG DEPARTMENT OF DEEDS & RECORDS, COMPLIANCE DIVISION, DEPARTMENT OF REDUNDANCY DEPARTMENT.

-----------

for Sunday Muse #132.

Elk

image by jason limberg

When elk look into their future,
they see their partners, the wolves.
Under gray cotton skies, they find the custodian lost in the woods,
pushing his bucket and mop with difficulty over roots and divots.
When elk speak, they can see their breath,
but the custodian hears nothing, like new dust arranging itself.

When wolves look into their future, 
they see a wounded custodian lagging behind.
The desperate, unsteady sway of keys on his hip
energizes their legs like an artist giddy over the right model.
On their tongues the wolves carry a palette
and with it they paint hunger, satisfied.

When custodians look into their future,
they see rocking chairs secreting themselves among the elk herds.
When wolves circle, the elk stamp their hooves nervously,
their eyes spy-hopping above the horizon like prayer flags.
When wolves kill, custodians return amazed to their mothers
as the huge heads of the elk swivel on the scent of evening.
______

for both Wordy Monday and Art Flash at Real Toads.

Involuntary

"I was born here and I'll die here/against my will" --Bob Dylan

 

Borne by a yellow-black bitch and dark as a plum,

our cat tried to asphyxiate me,

but angels slipped me breaths 

disguised as fists.

I became the cellar fighter of the infant ward,

with a smile that peeled paint

and the ability to read minds.

I planted nightmares

with bone-breakers 

from the little perfect fingers of every thought.

Now, here I am on the street,

baking bricks on my tongue

and cursing up cathedrals where burger places sank.

Come to bed with me, woman,

here in the alley on my mattress barge.

I'm a woman too, under the bruises and fractures.

In the middle of the night,

my instincts will kick in and I'll thrash,

whipping and snapping like a downed wire--

I can't control it. 

I'll sorry you a dove from my prison cell. 

All I want

is to be arrested with my dogs under the Mann Act

while trying to die in the pansy garden

under the birch branches

in Michigan in the spring.

Custody can be mistaken for love. Can't it?

I'll straighten my fingers for the first time in my life,

crawl out from a crease in my target-face,

and pretend I'm some beauty

on the Mackinac Bridge

stepping over into the clean of the breeze.

_______

for both Poets Of April and An Antic Disposition at Toads.

 

 

Sleeping Bear Dunes National Lakeshore

Don't worry, Pookie.
There are no dinosaurs on the beach here,
no longboats crammed with Vikings,
no Roman legions trying to conquer the sea.

Wear your flip flops.
Take your paperback.
I made you coffee, because
I am as loyal as Sancho Panza, and as unobtrusive as Dulcinea.

I'm glad we came here.
Once, as a child, I went rolling down the dune--
someone took a picture, and in it there is nothing but me and white sand,
so that I seem to be falling through pure light.

Emily Dickinson is dead, though she's spoken to me since.
John Lennon is dead,
and my favorite dogs, too.
My mother is dead,
but Pookie, there's me. There's you.

No pterodactyl will come pluck us from the beach.
My brother won't come, and make it up with us.
No old lovers will rise out of the surf and say they're sorry,
but there are starfish
and a nice sunrise.

Here is your coffee. Your book. Where is my beach hat?
Let's not miss another wave.
Let's get out of here, like flirts in an old movie.
Let's be silent, let's do Pure Michigan.
Let's hold hands and make out and not act our age.

Let's BE HERE NOW.
Let's be beach bums, feeding the gulls;
forgiving how we got here,
forgetting the way back.
_______

for Susie's challenge at Real Toads. Photo at top by Douglas Salisbury.