On Learning It's the Midwestern Weather That Makes Us All Crazy
Michelle Menting

Maybe atmospheric pressure
         discombobulates us.
Or maybe
         the rain breaks into maple syrup,
runny instead of downpour, and all

the weathermen become pancakes,
         soak in sticky sweetness, and tell us all about it.
Maybe we all fall down rabbit holes,
         meet talking cats trapped down in the tunnel
to China. The tabbies get stuck somewhere
         beneath the Bering Strait—eat too many shrimp
to waddle back up manholes in Chicago.

         Maybe pigs ride bicycles and dreams
birth baby zebras from the tops of our heads.
         And what does drunkenness do?
Makes us balance our checkbooks? We then mow
         the lawn, take out the trash? And drugs—

hardcore, inject-in-the-arm narcotics? Do
         the needles and inhalants warm us up
for coffee and delightful conversation
         at Starbucks? When after sex,

the rough stuff—flipped over on my stomach,
         the towel crushing my larynx, hipbones
grinding the marble beneath
         the vanity, bruises all around?

We go shopping
         for kitchen appliances. We do
the usual. We drive our car
         to the mall. We don't even pray

we don't get shot looking at shoes.
         We don't even notice
pigs on Schwinns,
           or how everything sticks to umbrellas.

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