To reach the jetty, wind
past four cattle gates,
negotiate the dirt and rocks
that serve as road,
believe you are not lost
even when you are.
Turn right at the mobile home,
half-there, half not,
its insides scavenged.
Park at the rusted-out Dodge.
The jetty before you
is not Smithson’s,
a trick on the uninformed,
an industrial pier, and straight.
The path continues
beyond an amphibious lander,
misplaced memorial
to no war. A quarter mile more:
stop at the bucket seats,
sit and have a smoke.
The Great Salt Lake
has risen eight inches
above the whitened stones.
Wade the spiral
to its core. Wave
to your wife,
tell her to come out
in her shoes.
Watch her circle in
to you, take her hand
amid the red algae blooms
and kiss her salty skin.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 21, Issue 2.
Originally from Los Angeles, Michael Hardin lives in rural Pennsylvania with his wife, two children, and two Pekingeses. He is the author of the forthcoming poetry chapbook, Born Again (Moonstone Press), and has had poems published in Seneca Review, Connecticut Review, North American Review, Quarterly West, Gargoyle, Texas Review, Tampa Review, among others. He has recently finished his memoir, Touched.
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