a transcription of the poem read on the home page of this issue

by Evie Shockley

now that i’m on this track, i can’t find my way back
to the main drag. in the middle of 2020, i carelessly
drifted off onto the a street not quite a cul-de-sac, but
still sacked or socked in, a cloud having swung so
low i got stuck, the flow of traffic—distinguishable
thursdays, next weeks, augusts, and aughts—
carrying on getting carried away without me, just
off-scream off-screen. obscene that i seem to have
delegated dailiness so long that my mind’s
convinced it’s no longer essential. with last year
misty, my brain has relegated the whole of pre-
pandemic life to a fog. or is that exhaust fumes? Will
i need eye surgery to see my way clear back to that
spring in paris, that year in the berkshires, that
north carolina decade? cataracts over cackalack. the 
question is: who was i when we last hugged so
close our bones met? where are the coffee spoons of
yesteryear? i’ve measured out my life in package
deliveries and what’s in bloom. the time is now
thirteen boxes past peonies. if you can locate my
whereabouts on a calendar, come get me. i don’t
know where i’m going, but i need a ride.

Poem copyright 2023 by Evie Shockley. All rights reserved.

See more poems from Evie Shockley on The Fight & The Fiddle: “from the infinite alphabet of afroblues,” “décima on the fabric of time,” and “composition.”

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Read more in this issue: Interview | Critical Essay | Writing Prompt