PETOSKEY STONE
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.
Detroit Lit Mag 