* — April 2, 2017
Shore House

If you knew the thunder that shook across the water—pink
then peach then dulled and washed with blue—was the sound
from a nearby weapons testing facility, what difference would it make
during that trembling when, after a day driving down the coast, cocktails
at the end of the dock, someone mentions an ex-husband out of the hospital,
whose drift began years ago on this river or inlet or whatever you call a slow,
shallow body that finally holds nothing but sky. Maybe you’d think surrender,
or worse, find that shape fillable: desire, another-tide-closer heartbreak.
Now it’s night, and you’re certain all bodies are meant for land. Capsized shell,
blasted holes through the branches, lighter there, now dark, you’re flooding
every shape; the only sound is thunder.

Originally published in No Tokens Issue No. 6. View full issue & more.

Will Frazier lives in Brooklyn, where he is co-founder and coordinator of the Franklin Electric Reading Series. His poems appear or are forthcoming in Washington Square Review, Cosmonauts Avenue, and elsewhere. He studied poetry at the University of Virginia.