PoetryMagazine.com

Derold Sligh
SOUTH KOREA

Derold Sligh is currently a member of the English faculty at Daegu 
University in Daegu, South Korea. He received a BA and MA from Central 
Michigan University and an MFA from San Diego State University. His work 
has appeared in journals  such as American Poetry Journal, 
Mythium, Chamber Four, Konundrum Engine, Saw Palm, Pudding House Press, 
Switchback Magazine, Central Review, Web del Sol, and Gemini Magazine He 
has taught creative writing workshops for San Diego State University, 
Gear Up and King/Chavez/Parks and was also a guest poet at the Theodore 
Roethke Memorial where he ran a workshop for African American fathers 
and sons.

IF MY HEART WERE A CITY,
IT WOULD BE SAGINAW, MICHIGAN

The river cuts light from dark

people, suburban from urban others.

We crossed the bridge for rib-tips from Rib Shack

and haircuts from Inez’s.

Inez would shave your fade so close that you’d bleed

then douse those wounds in rubbing alcohol.

I watched tears roll down cheeks

of fully grown men—linebackers, power forwards,

and GM factory workers. But we never winced,

and Inez watched closely and chuckled inside

at us stone-faced kids

draped in barber capes, emotionless.

She swiveled us, cut us,

swiveled and cut us again.

In Saginaw, Michigan, there are lines

where the economy rose and rescinded,

where it boomed

and where it depressed—

abandoned shopping plazas

and steel mills.

They use the gigantic parking lot space

for carnivals. A girl clung to my arm

on the Ferris wheel.

We held hands as I walked her home

down sidewalks.

They still used gas lamps

in her neighborhood

so the streets reeked like kerosene.

In Saginaw, large plots of land for sale

grown over with long grass and trees,

a few coyote ruffling through dry leaves.

Fields that Steve and I rummaged through

with long sticks and pocket knives unsheathed.

Through field corn we raced,

following deer tracks,

fearing bucks during mating season.

We hid in the brush

as they huddled around saltlicks

like unemployed people flocked around an unemployment office.

When we got home,

Steve’s little brother Jay aimed a shotgun—

dove perched on a telephone wire

along a semi-busy road.

Just maybe six years old, the gun kicked him so hard

that the traffic squealed to a stop.

Jay fell backward

and accidently let off another round into the air.

Little dove perched on a telephone wire

along a semi-busy road,

welcome to my heart.

Can you believe the lies they’ve said

about my heart?

Once called “The Murder Capital of America”

and voted by TIME magazine as “the Most Dangerous Place in America for Women”—

they embellish the crime rate in Saginaw, Michigan—

it’s not as dangerous as they say.

But on the other side of town,

there are neighborhoods

where you shouldn’t walk at night.

Around West Genesee,

you could get mistaken for the enemy.

Unwanted guests get “got” in those sections of town.

As they often say: Above all else! Protect your heart!

The corner liquor stores, Church’s Chicken

and the bbq joint at the laundry mat

all with their bulletproof glass.

You have to yell your order through a small hole.

The hole is curved

so the barrel of a gun can’t be poked through.

Behind the glass, the cooks look like a zoo exhibit,

like polar bears or penguins.

They get so close to the glass—

it feels like  you could touch one.

Shannon[1], you left that city too soon,

my heart. Autumn still reminds me of you

in Saginaw, Michigan—the taste of apple cider,

burning leaves and sugar beets,

your mom’s recipe for monkey bread baking in the oven.

You acted innocent and gentle when I visited your house,

yet how you chased me through the playground in elementary school,

pinned me down and threatened to kiss me each recess—

your platinum strands trailing behind you

like a comet tail,

all that light in your being

as if you had never seen darkness,

the luminescence of your smile

like light bursting forth through storm clouds.

If my heart were a city,

there I would find you

sitting by the pool in your backyard,

might hear the sound of a crowd erupting with cheers—

someone has just hit a homerun

in the baseball park in your neighborhood.

He is rounding the bases.

His team is waiting to hug him at home plate.

If only my heart were a city.

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© Copyright, 2014,  Derold Sligh.
All Rights Reserved.