Black ink, I drew a map of Detroit on my palm.
When I tilled the tomato garden it smeared
into some dead animal, clouded among abrasions.

Now when I walk through the city, I have to remember
what my palm looked like before the sweat and sun.
Now I turn onto Woodward clinging to the image,

the smell of tomatoes and fresh dirt, the ting of metal
hitting rock and rock hitting boot-toe and I wonder
if I can make it to the river from here.

C.J. Opperthauser is a Michigander teaching and living in Ohio. His poems have been published or are forthcoming at Controlled Burn, Midwestern Gothic, Third Wednesday, and elsewhere. He likes to run and fish, and blogs at http://thicketsandthings.tumblr.com.