Conversing with Alexa

I keep teleporting myself
                                                          between centuries. I keep searching
                   for something I can’t remember.

I’m a spider, flinging out threads of attention,
                                                                               my web without
pattern or center. No, the center                                             
                                                                                
                                                                    is hidden                                   
                                             massive,
                    a black hole. No,

                                               I’m an elk circled by wolves
                              and I can’t keep track
of them all. Sorry.

                                                                   One of my eyes
keeps sliding out, fastening
                                             on this or that

before it joins the other eye.
                                                        No: it’s things that are winking on
and off, bipolar fireflies.

                                           I have scattered myself: left my hands
              in the kitchen, my feet
at the door
                                        and my heart singing Baby Come Back
           in the car with the radio.

Priscilla Frake is the author of Correspondence, a book of epistolary poems. She has work in Verse Daily, The Sun, Nimrod, The Midwest Quarterly, Medical Literary Messenger, The Wayfarer, Whale Road, Spoon River Poetry Review, and The New Welsh Review, among others. Anthology publications include Weaving the Terrain: 100 Word Southwestern Poems, Enchantment of the Ordinary, and Women. Period. She lives in Asheville, NC, where she is a studio jeweler.