Origin Story

Lake Michigan dreamed me, I think, 
in the winter of 1969, its long currents 
combing shipwrecks and where 

was my mama, then? (She was wearing 
a red muumuu.) And where was my father, 
then? (He was fishing for steelhead.) 

No one dreamed you, stupid girl, the seagull 
said—you came straight from the belly 
of your granddad’s school mascot. 

You wore plaid skirts and bruised your knees 
and lived across the street from the motorcycle shop. 
I remember dropping dimes in the jukebox; 

I remember embers in the sand. Once I saw God 
himself—a small boy running across the RV park 
with a toy sword in his hand. I dreamed 

we all lay down on the beach and the dunes 
moved over our bodies. It took 
ten thousand years of whispering, 

but we finally slept. And before that? 
the seagull asked. Before that I found comfort 
in the fur of animals and the movement 

of a boat on the water. I was warm 
in my mother’s arms. Before that I was 
a sonic boom over Wisconsin, and before that, fire.