I know about cycles, like how
garbage turns to mulch. Like
little girls, we try to impress each
other: I was a princess. I was in
a play about a princess. Not even
the lies we told were well-made and
I watched them change into an ugly,
singed brand. I burn the things I touch
and they burn me back.
To locate events in Michigan,
you hold your left hand out, trace
on its back to tell: how you spent summers
at the tip of your ring finger,
how for your nineteenth birthday
we crossed the border at your thumb.
In high school, I drowned
at the bump of your wristbone.
Other states lack this intuitive map—
this the first Midwestern navigation,
highway system of tendons
and papercuts. How do they illustrate
Point A to B without our mapped hands?
When the lights go out, they will not
know how far North they’ve come.
The sense of contextual space in our fingers
I’ll still know Michigan.