Marc Frazier

Without Me

though the whole story is not whole,

how much we still know

though what I do is not me,

it is what you will think is me

though I may reveal some wisdom,

a stupid crowd exists inside

the sweaty cistern, rapeseed betokening summer

the music beat on, you know, it was June

something will grow here without me—

thunder, sage, a white violet

it has already happened I tell myself,

a balm for the fear of death

though danger never passes,

blood speaking every language consoles

each moment—a dead star,

but also a bridge to awareness

I fear love will not move me

in any sure direction

but I calm, with my own beauty,

shuffling my hooves in the stall

a woodpile, snow flurries betokening winter

the music beat on, you know, it was November

each season begs the question:

am I someone else entirely and I’m the last to know?

Honor the Unworthy

I’m nobody, who are you?

I feared the dark confessional booth—

The only one who listened to me, listened to my sins

Lord, I am not worthy

Only say the word and I shall be healed

Feeling unloved meant I had a sense of love

Waves of yielding/waves of walling up

Now I know to be empty is to be aware—

a broken artifact to be patched—

perhaps more beautiful, stronger

unlike a fractured family—a storm in a hospital room

Siblings’ harsh words holding hands

around her dead body

Mother’s silence so loud already

Our flight plans are useless

like the bird’s who hit my window with a thud

this morning, writhing on my deck

I wonder if it were a sign,

or if sometimes it is just death