Stephanie Johnson

I left you as you preened,
proud as a mud hen and out
painting the town a rusty shade
of red.

Back then, life was
a destination full
of quicksand, the
only way out was
on the skyrocket
trajectory of an
actor or astronaut,
pulled out of that
viscous sucking
pool of automotive
grease
“heave-ho!”

You held the rest
of us tight, but a
few dreamt of
other climes, our
souls flayed by
windchill and
our families.

Remember that well-
meaning guidance
counselor urging me
to marry you so
young?

She tried to fit me
for a pair of Red
Wing boots and a
mortgage in a
material that
didn’t suit.

And so I broke up
with you, my heart
frozen, lost in a
yellowed corn maze,
its beauty best
observed from far
above.

Perhaps astronauts
too shed a tear as
they regarded your
lonely visage from a
hundred miles
high— close and far
enough to know how
precious the escape
was.

But gravity pulls all of us back
— even them —
to the old, rusted out
license plate
rattling down I-75.
The astronaut whispers
as he reads the words
barely visible
at the top of the plate:
“Ohio, the heart of it all.”