DiaBLOGue

Orange lightning burns 
the Detroit sky tonight. 
We just got out of the temple,
two hours of white stillness, 

The moon is up, and the fire has burned down. 
Benjamin stoops, coaxes embers to life.  
“Hello,” he says.  
“Cold?” I ask. 
“Not so much,” he says. 

Boo and Yamba climb fast, finding trail in dusk, and I follow 
on stiffening mud and snowcrust from last week’s first snow.
They skirt Cliff Lake then Petit, Linear, and so between glacial morains,
taciturn boys bewildered by plunging cold and this sudden-setting 
behavior of water. The lakes bend in each ascending basin,

Very bold, 
I saw a star fall from heaven, 
Kindle a fire in the valley of decision. 
There could be nothing upon earth  
So exquisite 

My sister once died, 
alone, on the operating table.  
They brought her back of course 
—no harm done— 

is a volatile fuel 
that blazes you far 
into the white desert 
like some 50s speed test pilot 

The first time I remember seeing a baptism was at a tiny Southern Baptist chapel in Chiefland, Florida. All dolled up in my frilly pastel dress, white buckled shoes, and lacy socks, my brother and I walked across the hot parking lot from Grandma’s black Mazda truck into the homey brick chapel, each holding a finger of our grandmother’s hand. She had pressed her best dress so stiff she may as well have washed it in pure starch. My little brother’s six-year-old indoctrinated Southern etiquette displayed itself proudly—church was not a regular outing, and he didn’t mind being suited up and shown off. Plenty of others coming into the chapel were in their Sunday best, most of whom gave the air of being “regulars,” but medleys of worn denim mixed with the collared shirts and skirts didn’t seem out-of-place.