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.