Connecticut

The muscle of Connecticut
Sleeps beneath my fingernails.
The breath of Connecticut
Dances between the sun and my neck.
The sweat of Connecticut
Leaks from a garden tomato
And envelops my tongue.
The tears of Connecticut
Melt from a snowflake streaking my cheek.
The blood of Connecticut sings
Like a thousand church bells
It is the voice of everyone I love.
The blood of Connecticut is my mirror.

Connecticut sounds like machinery.
It is a chunk and a clunk of a deafening history.
Its hats can whisper in brassy voices.
Connecticut conspires to revolt.
It dresses in blue and ivory. It kills scarlet. It liberates.
Connecticut is as metallic as an oyster
And as modern as corn.
It is the vinegar on a fiddlehead fern.
Connecticut drapes over your shoulders like a sweater.
It is in the pleat of your pants.
Connecticut is somewhere between Huck Finn and a page.
It is between an actor’s sole and the stage.
It hangs with the pollen drifting over Goodspeed.

Patrick H. Gannon cast a line in Newtown
And hooked the twenty-first century.
Cathy, Matt and I, my Mom, my Dad
my brother, my sister-in-law,
Three nephews and a niece...
We dance against the current.
He pulls, something Victorian pulls, something Northern pulls.
Pawtuckets pull. Centuries pull. Eons pull.
It is the earth of Connecticut that pulls.
It the muscle upon we which we scratch and claw
Every spring in our gardens when we plant tomatoes.
And dream of oysters at the beach.
Connecticut sleeps beneath our fingernails.