Wisconsin Death Trip: Highway 32
here is a house beaten by
years of lake wind (gentle
summer & winter’s not-so)
its white paint peeling off in
strips a willow tree weeps its
green-drenched tresses sweep
the (half dirt) front yard it is
haunted by the ghost of a
southern belle her husband
dragged her to Wisconsin she
died of consumption now she
roams & moans & weeps
beneath the willow tree she
loved (more than she loved
her man) I tell my lover this
he laughs
***
here is a house here I am at
twenty-three it is four thirty
in the cracked hours of
mourning I am running
barefoot across the half dirt
front yard my dancing-ripped
tights & open-toed heels in
my left hand a cigarette
smoldering in my right smoke
floats behind me a fragrant
ghost here is a me haunted by
the girls I used to be
***
here is a road paved with gold
no with ghosts & how many
I’ve met on this road once I saw
a man jump down from a boxcar
his black boots horse hooves
kicking up dust storms his long
coat the wings of a weird water
bird he was backlit by the freight
engine light shooting out all
around his dark silhouette then
he stepped into the nettle-thick
shadows & disappeared into the
August fog fish fog sand fog
once I watched October
teenagers build a fire on a
median strip they were black
clad arms raised keeping ghost
watch summoning their dead
***
highway 32 car crash highway
32 road rash highway 32 road
block highway 32 cop watch
with this number I thee wed
with this number I summon thee
dead watch out don’t crash deer
eyes a yellowgreen glint in your
headlights (deadlights) deer
looming antlered in the fog fog
on the glass in the headlights
deer fog ghost fog swallow you
whole fog look out dear &
what’s your number thirty-two
thirty-two I’m calling you
***
here is the spur road back of
the river flanked by the
cemetery & the trailer park
between the two lies a vacant
lot home to dirt mounds &
rusty cans & three sofas soggy
& sagging I know this is where
the graveyard ghosts hang out
nights when they’re bored of
coffins & tombstones they
catch toads & put them in the
pockets of naughty boys shoot
rusty cans with bb guns throw
pennies at passing trains spook
the neighborhood cats with
invisible yanks on their
tails they sit on those sofas
& speak ill of the dead two
sofas are a dull brown but
one is bright lipstick orange-red
I bet the ghosts who sit on
that one have the best gossip
& the neighborhood kids hear
that yowling & hissing & think
it’s just the cats
***
I tell my lover this he laughs
he doesn’t believe in ghosts
says everything supernatural
can be explained by something
rational a trick of the light a
drunken night a dust mote a moth
& I say listen honey I’ve been
drunk a lot but I know the
difference between spirits &
spirits listen honey I know a lot
of ghosts they sure aren’t dust
nor moths (though they do press
themselves against the window
screen hoping to get close to the
light) I say I knew a naughty boy
who was buried in a basement his
necktie turned noose turned him
to ghost I say ssshhh up & listen
to the toads look at the fog hell
look at me motherfucker I’m just
a ghost haunted by the girls I used
to be I’m just a deer in the fog
with two blue fireflies for eyes
***
how can you not believe in ghosts
when nothing dies I mean yeah
everything dies (that’s a fact
Springsteen) on this highway but
it never goes away it just turns dust
& cat & lake wind
it just haunts
& haunts
& haunts
years of lake wind (gentle
summer & winter’s not-so)
its white paint peeling off in
strips a willow tree weeps its
green-drenched tresses sweep
the (half dirt) front yard it is
haunted by the ghost of a
southern belle her husband
dragged her to Wisconsin she
died of consumption now she
roams & moans & weeps
beneath the willow tree she
loved (more than she loved
her man) I tell my lover this
he laughs
***
here is a house here I am at
twenty-three it is four thirty
in the cracked hours of
mourning I am running
barefoot across the half dirt
front yard my dancing-ripped
tights & open-toed heels in
my left hand a cigarette
smoldering in my right smoke
floats behind me a fragrant
ghost here is a me haunted by
the girls I used to be
***
here is a road paved with gold
no with ghosts & how many
I’ve met on this road once I saw
a man jump down from a boxcar
his black boots horse hooves
kicking up dust storms his long
coat the wings of a weird water
bird he was backlit by the freight
engine light shooting out all
around his dark silhouette then
he stepped into the nettle-thick
shadows & disappeared into the
August fog fish fog sand fog
once I watched October
teenagers build a fire on a
median strip they were black
clad arms raised keeping ghost
watch summoning their dead
***
highway 32 car crash highway
32 road rash highway 32 road
block highway 32 cop watch
with this number I thee wed
with this number I summon thee
dead watch out don’t crash deer
eyes a yellowgreen glint in your
headlights (deadlights) deer
looming antlered in the fog fog
on the glass in the headlights
deer fog ghost fog swallow you
whole fog look out dear &
what’s your number thirty-two
thirty-two I’m calling you
***
here is the spur road back of
the river flanked by the
cemetery & the trailer park
between the two lies a vacant
lot home to dirt mounds &
rusty cans & three sofas soggy
& sagging I know this is where
the graveyard ghosts hang out
nights when they’re bored of
coffins & tombstones they
catch toads & put them in the
pockets of naughty boys shoot
rusty cans with bb guns throw
pennies at passing trains spook
the neighborhood cats with
invisible yanks on their
tails they sit on those sofas
& speak ill of the dead two
sofas are a dull brown but
one is bright lipstick orange-red
I bet the ghosts who sit on
that one have the best gossip
& the neighborhood kids hear
that yowling & hissing & think
it’s just the cats
***
I tell my lover this he laughs
he doesn’t believe in ghosts
says everything supernatural
can be explained by something
rational a trick of the light a
drunken night a dust mote a moth
& I say listen honey I’ve been
drunk a lot but I know the
difference between spirits &
spirits listen honey I know a lot
of ghosts they sure aren’t dust
nor moths (though they do press
themselves against the window
screen hoping to get close to the
light) I say I knew a naughty boy
who was buried in a basement his
necktie turned noose turned him
to ghost I say ssshhh up & listen
to the toads look at the fog hell
look at me motherfucker I’m just
a ghost haunted by the girls I used
to be I’m just a deer in the fog
with two blue fireflies for eyes
***
how can you not believe in ghosts
when nothing dies I mean yeah
everything dies (that’s a fact
Springsteen) on this highway but
it never goes away it just turns dust
& cat & lake wind
it just haunts
& haunts
& haunts
Jessie Lynn McMains is a writer, zine-maker, and the 2015-2017 Poet Laureate of Racine, Wisconsin. Recent publications include 10 Poems By, an e-chapbook published by Hello America, and It’s Like The ‘Watch The Throne’ of Tender Punk Poems, a split chapbook with Misha Bee Speck. What We Talk About When We Talk About Punk, a collection of her creative non-fiction, is forthcoming in 2017 from Punch Drunk Press. She's the owner/editor of Bone & Ink Press, a small press with the aim of publishing limited-edition chapbooks of poetry, non-fiction, and experimental genres, written by marginalized writers. She also teaches workshops on memoir, poetry, and zine-making.