Manistee Light

Brother I don’t either understand

this skipscrapple world—

these slick bubble cars zip feverish

down rushes of notcorn of notbeets

notcabbage and the land and the land—

you should know, man, nothing

grows down here anymore except

walloped wishes and their gouged out

oil cans. Where notbloodroot spans us

guard towers land mined in the sand.

They twist us. They tornado us. No—

Do spring breezes bring the scent of smelt?

Remember? Even on strike our mother

gathered smelt by their fingery bagfuls

and fried them whole. I wish I knew

how she did it. It was almost enough.