Midwest Boys

In Oshkosh, Wisconsin,

we kept it in mind

I-41 went clear down

to Florida. These scoop-necked

midsized midwestern

towns, set up separate originally

on waterways for trading --

first furs, then lumber,

the workers drinkers

voiceless then fierce

for the hell of it, tense

machinery, construction.

As a teenager you noted

mainly the routes out.

Spring, the dead mud,

the bad paint job, drifting jarred

eaves troughs, sullen pickup

sunk to its axles on the lawn.

A boy's mind turns to the road.

Tract houses, one, one,

all along the frontage road

with tequila and Old Style, pot,

cheap speed; if you're

a girl you try to remember:

They shoved candlesticks

up Linda. They drew on her

with her Bonne Bell.

If you pass out

they'll strip you,

you won't know

and if you're lucky only

photograph you. These pictures

show up on bulletin boards.

In Eau Claire, 1992, teenage

boys dropped rocks from

an overpass over I-94,

aiming for windshields.

Martin Blommer in his

Winnebago, hit by a 32-

pound rock; his wife alongside

didn't hear it, the crash,

the RV veered in a second

into the median, staggering

to stop, and he, in silence,

transfixed instantly, forever.

32 pounds. These are

my highways. I remember.

Long-play radio stations,

driving in moonlight

past hours of white

white mute fields.

I never wanted

to go back to Florida.

As a girl I didn't

have much to compare --

dime bags, shot glasses, lives

that trudged with losses

and butane. I can't forgive them.

Where could one drunk girl

find an ocean?

In the first forced blink of spring

I hate you.

I remember your names.

My curse on you is this:

May you have daughters

and may you love them.

Betsy Brown, from Year of Morphines (LSU Press)

copyright 2014 Betsy Brown