Today's poem is by James Haug
How It Came to Be Connecticut
Local weather followed her everywhere.
Over the hill a dreamy white powder
Encrusted the rim of a gypsum mine.
After four weeks in the northwest corner,
It was a bad start. Clearings aren't what
They're cracked up to be: a vulture flew
Concentric rings above our patch of dirt.
How it came to be Connecticut nobody knows.
All day we gathered brush, fallen limbs.
A goodly fire we made after dark, how it
Carved mad shadows in her face. We'll
Build, she said, pointing a fork at the night
Beyond our camp light. Garage for the truck,
An attic for antlers. People come from all
Over the world to the city, to begin again.
Then they come here looking for a little plot
In the wind, when they're done making a mess.
They'll never get this, she hissed, stabbing
Her fork in the ground. It was about time
For me to head out. I have a cozy little crib
Off the highway, and miles to go,
And sodium pentothal in case I dummy up.
Copyright © 2006 James Haug All rights reserved
from The Gettysburg Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission
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