(and sometimes we grieve the inanimate)

State Park Road, Wisconsin

faithful backbone

etched with storied pot-holes and grit,

you are the pocked face of a midwestern parade queen

waving and reaching your quiet song,

proud and natural and knowing.

summon your horizontal kingdom

and we bow in awe.

 

at the climax of summer’s romance, 

you are unbuttoned and sweating, 

your poise an upward reception 

of bicycle tires and slow fertilizing feet.

you yawn and sway like a hammock as

crickets and manure hypnotize themselves 

into feeling beautiful.

 

and you reach on.

leaves turn orange,

men follow.

orange cap and overalls 

hot orange tang in an orange mug 

crisscross ribbons across your spine

and mock the slain flesh that emerges,

still wild-eyed from dog day’s deception.

glittered frost and your stained rosy cheeks

hush the horror and leave summer ashamed 

and naked in her naivete.

 

and you reach on,

frozen puddles bow to frozen sky 

bows to frozen breath.

even the sparkle of deceit 

now fades under a gown of black,

so black it’s white.  so white, decades of roadkill 

at last feel tucked in for the night

and wonder if their souls have been saved.

slow feet are now no feet,

slow cars are now ditched cars.

your vertebrae is calloused

and unforgiving

as pulseless life forgets the impulse to live.

 

and you reach on,

bones creak and new expressive fractures

threaten your beauty queen poise.

but you laugh 

as light and shadow only make you more regal 

and the hum of 

a million winged harbingers

swarm to anoint you with the green 

stench of another cycle.

and you receive them.

their dark water chant hovers over your breast.

and you love them,

their imbecile promise of rebirth despite time’s ultimatum.

pocked and mud-puddled and devoted

you call to the horizon

unfurl the mess and insanity of your eternal wingspan

 and reach on.