Greetings from Minnesota

Every time I open my mouth,

no matter the words,

it’s a greeting from Minnesota:

The way my mouth lingers over the ‘o’ when people ask where I’m from

or when I become excited and out comes dontcha know or oh yea no fer sure

as I nod fervently, eyebrow game on

even how I say roof or how Taupō rolls around my mouth as I try to get it right.

But it’s also greetings from Minnesota

when I am caught not wearing a coat

in fifty-degree weather—heavy winter coat weather

in my tiny, dusky, oceanfront town.

Or when all I want is cranberries or the right kind of marshmallows

or golden delicious, wild rice, not black, or a UofM-created apples

or, in my exasperation, forever exclaim that pumpkin is a type of squash,

not that squash is a type of pumpkin.