Rouge River

             to Grandma Mildred

 You’ve never lived

if your river hasn’t been ignited

with many fires in winter.

You’ve never tasted life

if your neighborhood

hasn’t been hit

by a hydrofluoric acid fart

let off by an oil refinery

that burns the paint

off your house.

 You do not understand those who live

along the river of many fires.

The water of their faucets

sludges out in milky brown

lukewarm inedible richness.

You who know nothing

tell the people to drink

because you have never seen

the fires—ghostly blue, they dance

atop the surface,

refusing to drift downstream.

You must see them first

if we are ever to be understood.