Skip to main content

Duluth, a poem by James Figy

by James Figy
Like some Devil’s
Kettle, the storm poured

black droplets from nowhere
we had ever been, to spill holy

buckets of frigid rain, to scour
our every pathway—this water, to

wash Duluth’s dirtiest side
streets, to wet the Superior

shoreline, to melt into puddles
like cloying blueberry ice

cream from the Portland
Malt Shoppe, but once

the weather passed,
I glanced two of

her: one in the shallow
reflection pool covering

most of the pier, the woman
there, moving toward the light-

house; and also the woman
here, who kept looking out

after the storm until she saw something
worthwhile in the lake’s long horizon.

James Figy is a Hoosier living in St. Paul, Minnesota, and a graduate of the MFA program at Minnesota State University, Mankato. His creative work has appeared in Midwestern Gothic, Hobart, Cheap Pop, and the anthology Bad Jobs and Bullshit, among others. You can follow him (@jafigy) and check out the Fail Better interview series he runs for Fear No Lit.