A lighthouse keeper,
he times Lake Superior’s
lights, keeps lenses turning
so skippers can tell
islands apart. Up high,
silent, he watches
lake birds, wave tips.
Many keepers prefer
the slap of water
against shore, seasons
like four strange voices
in trees. Storms can’t
quite cover the beam.
Vern makes light
the way farmers coax
earth into harvest.
originally appeared in Porcupine (2001)
Many sank here, names
lost. Men trusted a boat—
clouds, purple welts,
rose off the bow:
water’s dictionary
left out “mercy”—
closed eyes,
an open mouth.
originally appeared in Orbis (1991)
1.
1883. For five days
we hoped the storm that chained
us to Bayfield would free us—
Lake Superior, a man
dancing alone, knows every move,
yet who could guess his calm
when killing? Sun out,
we left, risking water’s
iron hooks. Waves
grew higher as we went farther
out, beyond the light,
where we remembered land
like childhood. Any other life,
dead letters and promises.
When the ship cracked
open, wind carried no messages,
our bodies lost. Our families
built absence a home.
2.
1884. Fishermen find a silver spoon
engraved with “Manistee”
in a trout’s belly.
originally appeared in Porcupine (2001)
We drink milkshakes in Bayfield,
45s line walls. Tourists
scrape off jobs, amble
into shops. Lake Superior
has devoured many sailors,
holds secrets. A ghost
sits at any table. Someone
who died in the 1890s
pulls up a chair, sees
our Tommy Hilfiger shirts,
digital watches. Yet his lake
is also ours—icy water,
stunned moon. You and I talk
about tomorrow. He already
knows what he’ll do—stop by
a restaurant, listen, walk
on sand, watch for his body
between iron-scented waves.
originally appeared in Heartlands (2003)
No one back in Louisville asks
if I’m happy. They pity me,
alone, long winters, no family.
Logging. We scratch ourselves raw
from mosquitoes. Saws cut off
fingers, limbs. Many pack up
for warmer places,
not a city of hardwoods.
Stockton Island surrenders
fall and spring quickly. Winter
ice turns shores jagged.
If I had a son, would I
tell him to try this work?
He’d have to like hearing
wind in trees, smelling peat,
wood smoke, oxen. The company’s
hitting hard times, men
laid off and fired. Maybe
I’m next. What to do
when I leave? I’m full
of trees, birds, the coming
of spring when Superior thaws.
originally appeared in Philadelphia Poets (2003)
We slap and slap
black flies. I remove
rust-reddened sneakers.
You snap
pictures. Water bruises
our feet: we walk on
cold sky, roomy,
imagine miners who worked
in towns that sprawled
and fell,
head off in
different directions.
Later I warm
swollen feet
as you drive us
to a river
cutting into the Lake.
We walk over
a suspension bridge—
how familiar,
you and I on
a trembling bridge,
death flowing
beneath us,
Superior’s purple star
calling us to come
get it.
originally appeared in Spoon River Quarterly (1997)
Ice and Gaywings 