On the shores of North Point
a few arias of crosswind
hatch coils on the mute surf.
Last winter’s undertow
wrenched a crop
from the lake’s full-voiced gullet.
I lift from the clear jelly
a pale gray bud
and appraise the score
left in its frozen vessels:
that sometime verse of seaflesh,
a passacaglia of ancient
lips, ears, and genitals,
slowed by stone and floe
to the oceanic rhythm—
a tone we are deaf to.
Mitch VanAcker is a writer based in Detroit. His work examines “nature” and “the self”—their seeming disharmonies and the structures we build to reconcile them. He enjoys bonfires, kayaking, and impromptu visits to strange cities.
I DO NOT BELONG HERE (HIKING)
Well, sure. A host of pines, a fleeing doe,
A few frogs, mushrooms; all this bores me so.
I walked around the lake, clockwise and back,
And skipped rocks, and tasted tart sumac.
I even caught a frog, and caught another,
And laughed, pressing their lips as they were lovers,
And turned their bloaty bellies to the sun;
And still, of all thoughts, entertaining one.
Alas: this earth is not mine: nor lake, nor wood,
Nor any thing long promised to me good,
Nor work nor love nor friendship is a salve,
But every medicine effects by halves.
I threw my backpack at a fat last apple,
To find it was a soft, worm-eaten handful.
It is not mine. No, none of this is mine:
For I am either Nothing, or Divine.
Luca Gonçales is a self-taught artist living and working in the Downriver area. He works primarily in stone carving.