Cleveland, Columbus,
Davenport, Grand Rapids;
all these Midwestern towns
on a paper map and
I won’t get to any of them
before I die.

I say that
with finality. Say it
with conviction. A sense,
perhaps, of longing
or mistaken confidence —
or perhaps it’s just peace
that I’ve made with a shrinking circle
of where I go,
of where I can go?

Midwestern towns
are mysterious because
they aren’t; Midwestern cities
look the same as the ones
on either coast.

I don’t need
to go to Midwestern cities to know
that at some point I’d find myself
sitting in a hotel named the same
as the last one I stayed in.
There I would seize my fear,
roll it into
a small uneven ball,
toss it without thought into
my throat, feel it burning
all the way down
until I fell asleep.

Davenport, Cleveland,
Grand Rapids, Columbus.

These Midwestern cities
hold me hostage
and I’ve honestly never spent time
in any of them except
in my guts where I imagine them
as looking the same
all over their skin.

If I could? I would sit in their churches,
sing the formal parts of their services,
crush my head into their crevices;
I’d go eat in their diners, their restaurants,
choke down
their foods;

do my best to hold it together,
do my best to not break down.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T