In Medias Res

In Medias Res--in the middle of things

seems to be the best of any places

to begin.  middleWest is a not just a place

of in-between as much as it belongs 

to being in transition, to being in the middle.

The West has been the American ideal, 

the place where one can begin

again. We cannot really go back to the beginning.

Usually, we just start in the middle.

So here is a story to show this place, this idea of middleWest:

Last week, I was at work. I work in a cooking school in Missoula, Montana and I find things around the store that are on sale. I walk around with a clipboard and try to piece together recipes that are simple, elegant and healthy from these saled ingredients. While passing by the wine department, I saw a label in bold scrip, ORVIETO. I stopped and mouthed the words to myself, slightly practicing an accent, but mostly for nostalgia. For moments, I sailed back to the city of hilled stone and thought of a lunch I once had in cold sun. How if I could, I would find all of the ingredients and make it again. I would serve it to people in this valleyed city I now call home. But truffle oil is not for everyone's palate and instead I have a poem. This poem that I share with you was first placed in Orvieto, but upon further thought and long before I had even moved to Montana, I changed it from Italy to someplace that had mountains and rivers, a place with a valley and some sense of distance and intrigue, a place like Montana. 

Montana

You took me out of the dog dish

of Missoula and into the country

where we got lost in the winding

of our voices with windows open.

Everything was open then. We talked

of the winged man in Brazil, 

your cat Lulu, my dog in Michigan,

and ignored the Bitterroot River.

The dirt roads kept us from lunch.

We sat on a rock wanting to undress

each other layer by layer,

down to the skin we would later learn

to sink into. And when we stood 

on top of a butte, I stared

at your hair, dark like a stone too heavy

to move. As a child I collected agates,

smooth and black like tadpoles

in a desert pool. I thought I could take 

darkness out of water. Today, I sweep up

hair from my dying black lab and I cannot stop

thinking of you. I can't stop the cancer

growing inside her, chasing her

while she dreams of squirrels.

Dogs are smart. Or not. Either way, they don't look back.