The shark teeth in the anthills of my old neighborhood suggest this town used to be underwater

It rained the crops to pulp in 1995, 
the apple blossoms’ wet cheeks a reflection—
the maniac down the street rubbing himself, 
opening his palm to me, powderless
wings detached from their thorax,
his darkened thumbnail. Another man—one block over—
looking through the window at my 90-year-old
grandfather while his wife (the man’s; Helen of Troy) 
combs her lashes—a runway for her wet 
cheeks. This is about coming back. 

When I dip from the rental Corolla, I’m Mary 
Magdalene—a whore or a legend. The townspeople stare 
as I swallow yellowed grass, the pump house, 
a hazard of onlookers spilling seed. I picture Hilma 
rendering the apple—everything but its redness—
stitch organs over my eyes: my spleen a repurposing, 
my reputation the bowels of this village. This is about how 
the further I go, the harder it is to see my way back, 
to swallow my wildness then regurgitate it 
until all I’m left with is a recluse in the hot dark 

of a playground slide. The tavern men are holed up,
disbelieving women—especially regarding their aptitude 
for navigation. I trace mountains through heatwaves, 
nod my way through the grocery store. The fathoms are dark
beneath my shadow, as strange to me as these people
who eye me like totems. I pat the curbs dry of hail,
my palms pallid with plow salt. This is about 
how when you come back, you’d do well to come back 
to an ocean—a field where you can flounder
in what now slides across the rivulets of my throat.