Audra Puchalski

The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald

Furry pines, white
slashes of birch, ditches
of Queen Anne's Lace
and ferns. Every year
they take the same
trip: the same diners,
tourist traps, beaches,
and gift shops.
Familiar gray roads.
Bodies of water. The same
furry pines, white
birch bark, slashes.
The same ditches
full of Queen Anne's Lace,
ferns. I plan to stop
loving you. Who are you,

anyway? Once
I thought I lost
a mango. I found it
in the bottom of the bag
I carried every day:
soft, fragrant, broken skin
letting out sweet
ooze that glued
the pages of my books
together. Pines,
birch bark peeling
into long strips, ditches
full of Queen Anne's Lace
and ferns. Who
are you, anyway,
and what do you want.

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