She’s Florida Missouri But She Was Born in Valhermosa and Lives in Ohio

My mother’s named for places, not Sandusky
that has wild hair soliciting the moon like blue-black
clouds touring. Not Lorain with ways too benevolent
for lay life. Ashtabula comes closer, southern,
evangelical and accented, her feet wide as yams.

She’s Florida Missouri, a railroad, sturdy boxcars
without life of their own, filled and refilled with
what no one can carry.

You just can’t call somebody Ravenna who’s going
to have to wash another woman’s bras and panties, who’s
going to wear elbow-length dishwater to formal gigs,
who’s going to have to work with her hands, folding and
shuffling them in prayer.