Michigan

It doesn't snow where you are.

You ask for a photograph of girls making snow angels.

The year you learned to drive, I was born:

1973, full of doubt and heat.

It's greener here than I remembered.

The rural troubles of a rural state:

poverty lines and churches,

fully stocked prisons. I drive like I am

trying to not belong. But I do.

These highways and potholed towns:

Cedar Lake, Finton, Ionia,

ripped sofas and dim lighting,

where I am from. On Tuesday, the flea market unrolls

its insides – fat adults and children line the aisles.

Send me photographs of the fields,

you ask - An unexpected breeze knocking off

a farmer's hat and, of course, all the corn,

I capture in the lens. It's hard to explain

the communion of fields. I don't try.

I simply write ‘Michigan’ on the back

of the image to remind you. Today, a woman

finds the lens: open mouth laugh and polka dot

dress. On this, I write ‘a simple joy.’

I don't visit anymore and the pavement

stretches to another series of images.

It doesn't snow where you are.

It's summer and months have passed

since you've made a request.

Freudian

he thinks every woman is a plot

a story waiting to erupt, a rescue

he paints the eyes dark

so he can watch the moon bleed in them

eats the curved fruit

from the reflection of their desire

he craves the animated bliss

of one-dimensional starlets

their pets like plume & pelt jewels -

they are the high notes

but she's laughter like an echo

wandering out into the world

he grasps her thin neck

like a fine cigar

Copyright © Aleah Sato, 2007