I learn to sink my teeth      into lithe.

I was embodiment of cotton sweater

out of dryer.    Unable to resuscitate.


Form of one half-length     sleeve 

and the other            grasping to its

original          size. Unwearable.


My mouth was lighthouse,

revolving back                      to the cotton ratio

as if repeating fact could alter


the situation. It was 100% cotton. 

Someone put it        in the dryer

and it wasn’t            me.


I return to the facts             the way

walleye use the coordinates

imprinted      in their bodies


to reproduce                         in the exact

region of their birth.

It’s a more noble relapse.


I close my lips          over the lantern 

rested on my tongue. Closed mouth 

as cure-all     this time. 


Closed mouth as the absence of light

that strokes  the sobriety

growing from my brow.


Closed mouth as diving long enough

into Lake Superior  to witness

the purpose of homecoming.


M. Wright is an educator and poet living with his wife, Dylan, in Minnesota. He is the 2016 winner of the Atlantis Award and his poems have recently appeared in The Penn Review, Saint Paul Almanac, UCity, Wildness, and Jet Fuel Review. M. enjoys camping and fishing along the various North Shore cities of Lake Superior.