My hand crests your shoulder blade,
I can feel us down—
shifting from the bluffs over
Trempealeau, Wisconsin.
Fingertips on your spine trace the upper Mississippi,
knobs are pebbles washed
on the Minnesota shore,
and as I cross the damp swale
of your lower back
a hundred geese take flight. Iowa, who needs it?
We are immigrants who dream
over the steering wheel,
stumbling downstairs
for trucker coffee in Nebraska.