Lois Lane in Bronze

Illinois, your windmills can suckgolf balls through straws, your

tornados turn the world the colorof easy condiments. Let’s mustard

and relish ourselves, pick the poppyseeds from our navels with tooth

and nail—which is to say: tongue,which is to say: language. Illinois,

you’ve always lionizedthe proper heroes: women in

bronze over men of steel. Here,even an Ohio River town of 6,000

can be called Metropolis.

Let’s pretend my uncle found the girlface-down in Boneyard Creek. Let’s

say she was a squeeze to a superhero.Let’s pretend the wind carried her

there—flying like a balloon, Lindbergh’sgrasshopper fetish, Santos Dumont,

the college boys tossing in groupie-domtheir underpants into her hands,

fingers glowing with coals. Let’s pretendUncle Paul wasn’t late to his third

wedding for gigging frogs in Peoria,the beasts deflating beneath

his spear, the air dribbling overthe wings of the horseflies still

caught like hair in the backsof their throats. Let’s remember

how the sky flashed as we kissedourselves muddy, cooked the legs

in lemon and butter, stunned the pooranimals with bright light, so unexpected

in so much downstate dark. Let’sremember that home is where

the Nazi Buzz Bomb can spilta Steak ‘n’ Shake extra thick

with Sonny Bono’sBobcat Vest. This is my old

house. This is unincorporatedNormal. Let’s remember how

we once loved each other so muchin this state, our clothes flew

from our bodies, even withoutthe tornado. In our pockets, always

extra batteries. For longer life.For flashlights that illuminate

as they blind.