Black Box

I’ve always dreamt of California. Slipping the weather on and wearing it loosely. Driving Pacific Coast Highway too fast. Feeling the desert’s dry heat baking my skin, the fog of San Francisco. I visited once, San Diego, and it was chilly and rainy the whole week. I never went back. I can always try Tahiti. If it comes to that. My sister wore a helmet with a face guard most of her adult life. When I took her places, people stared. I told myself I could kickbox them in the face. If it comes to that. Joni Mitchell said there are no victimless crimes I know of out here in these graffiti ruins, my love. She’s right, of course. Who can I say this to? I can steal words from anyone. If it comes to that. Who listens to elders anymore/way? I used to be able to say what I felt. Now any word can be the wrong one. Who still says, “my love?” Lovers staring into the blue flames of a crackling fire? A horse whisperer to a thrashing mare? The sea and the moon in dialogue? I’ve always wanted to use the words cul-de-sac and cumulus together in a poem. I still can. If it comes to that. I miss the light of Vermont, its green shine, walnut skulls, the anatomy of moonwort. In season, I take pansies to my sister’s grave. I wait for someone to discover the black box that explains all this. Maybe it’s best not knowing. If it comes to that.

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Marc Frazier has published poetry in over a hundred literary journals. The recipient of an Illinois Arts Council Award, he has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and a Best-of-the-Net. His three poetry books are available online (new collection forthcoming in 2023). A Chicago area, LGBTQ writer, he is active on social media: Marc Frazier Author on Facebook. https://www.facebook.com/poetmarcfrazier