Orienteering (Summer, 1994)

Heading north toward Ogunquit
10 miles from Newburyport
beaches flicker into view

—if you can call them beaches, I say,
Florida-spoiled. My father, midwestern
transplant, reiterates what I grew up hearing:

how most people in our country
would gladly donate any innate sense—
eyeteeth, ear engram, (cuspid,

Latin word for point),
to live in our state, and then, entitled,

I couldn’t comprehend what I took for granted—
a stable homeland, freedom to forecast
desire’s itinerary. In my 30s, I seek

and scan. A broadcast warns
of thunderstorms on the horizon
and sure enough, static develops

in the console between us
in that rental sedan far from Boston:
the world ahead, maps on our laps

we lean out our windows—instruments of wind—
in the worst heat wave
to hit New England in nearly 60 years,

drive through history handed down—
shipbuilding’s glory days, the advent of abolition.
A trio of churches still standing.

My father assures we’ll get there yet,
with our legends, our penned dots and stars.