Minneapolis by Karstin Hale
Associate poetry editor Stephanie Oesch on today’s bonus poem: Hale’s tight summary of the Minnesota city is grounded in the streets and people she describes, but more important is how she mixes and contrasts religion, violence, and community to build something that leaves me with a chill in my fingertips, the faint melody of “Purple Rain” in my head, and a sense of place so firm I feel like I’m left standing right there at the edge of the water.
Minneapolis
The Holy Spirit swims through the streets of Uptown, Minneapolis, flip-turning fast before hitting the Somalis. On Lake Street, the liquor store opens at 10. People line up at 9. Every year, a body plunges through the ice and drifts toward warmth at the bottom. On Snelling Avenue, a man is shot. 3 blocks north, my cousins decorate their apartment. 3 blocks south, my uncle prophesies revival in the Twin Cities. The people in line on Lake Street take communion. The sun comes out after 6 months. Prince proselytizes my uncle. The Holy Spirit takes Philando. Lake Superior is a temporary ocean. Purify yourself in the waters of Lake Minnetonka. Find the boy at the bottom.
Karstin Hale is currently an MFA candidate at the University of Arkansas in Fayetteville but considers the Southern California coast “home.” This is her first published poem.
