Devil’s Lake

translates the world one way as a close shave

with teenage pregnancy. It translates as a car-

bomb, as cat litter that clumps for quick clean-up.

Why are we on the list of every chain letter?

Why does this itch? Why are you the walrus?

The world translates as a crude pictograph

scrawled in ink on the arm of our waitress.

We too have mapped the body and want a word

with the architect. We too swam the elementary

backstroke through the waters of high school,

repeating: chicken, airplane, jet, chicken,

airplane, jet; and on and on until we grew out

of our clothes. The world translates, loosely,

as a constant attack on good family values.

Let’s run down our checklist of necessities:

A healthy fear of sexually transmitted diseases?

Check. A desperate need to have our penises envied?

Check. We’ll have you know we sleep

in the nude. We sleep like we mean it. We give

110% to sleep. So what about the world?

Personally, we preferred the world’s Blue Period.

Personally, we thought we had one timeout left.

Hold still, the doctor told us. This will only hurt

forever. Then thankfully, it will all be over.

refused to wear shoes indoors, refused to stand

for the national anthem, refused elective surgery,

refused to move his hat before dinner.

The poem refused red meat and whole milk

and anything from the local grocer’s freezer section.

The poem was always asking questions.

The poem broke down at awkward moments:

laughing during the movie marathon, crying as his girl

cracked the yoke of her morning eggs, glazing

the plate in pale gold. Because he feared doctors,

the poem refused medication, experimental treatment,

refused to sit down when the doctor said,

Son, you better sit down. The poem came to my office hours

after I had them canceled to ask about his story.

The poem brushed his teeth with his index finger

after waking up in an unfamiliar bed

with an unfamiliar girl. The poem found religion.

The poem was a conscience objector.

The poem carried a firearm pinched between his belt

and his button-up and fired it once at a stray dog.

The poem was a terrible shot. Stopping at roadside cafes,

the poem took coffee black and remembered

the names of every waitress along his route. The poem

wanted to be sung, to live like a river in the throat,

pouring out a world without end. The poem asked about

his story. The poem asked about the story he’d leave.