Posted on August 14, 2023
Sanford, Michigan I
So. unmarked gravel parking and Country Classic
Rock when the car door opens itself and doesn't close
your mouth, cigarette hanging from a partial bridge
a fistfight, an exhausted letter jacket that smells like
driving away, that smells like
approaching, exchange fragments: there, one-another
walking on the inevitable and exhausting dirt road when
after three o'clock in the morning, it's the basement, the pyramid
of beer cases and hindsight creeping out with one of the cats
the screen door doesn't latch at the bottom
of the hill—kids, though, too: quietly
I thought I was here in the middle of hte night
when the radio turned itself on to grind out "Also Sprach
Zarathustra" for no goddamn reason, intrusive
and hilarious; everyone's name is Alex
now something goes down the stairs and then I will
just here, just threatening the sanctity of that ecstasy-
at-the-edge-of-terror thing—where is the laughing
ugly woman you dreamed about; I love her
I hope she'll be here; her language tells it better than I can
Sanford, Michigan II
Because of the spring flood, the lake went dry.
If that isn't ironic, I don't know what No, it isn't
The river floods, the dam fails, the man-made lake
Who cares? Just go to the quarry like everybody else
shouldn't jump in when you're so high like that
(young in memory and at night)
In the daylight, what's left of the lake and I consider
comfort lost in the washout. Desires once taken out and placed below
and then forgotten—now they're found surprise
shadows cast on quarry water are different
they reach
below the surface
into the silence of silt
and current
it's uncanny
it's quite something
Dana King is a photographer, poet, and book artist and is currently an MFA candidate and a Teaching Assistant at the University of Iowa Center for the Book. Dana is also an avid collaborator.
If you want to make something together, feel free to reach out: dana-king-1@uiowa.edu or instagram: @dana.alex.king