Site Specific

— Elaine Sexton

Here, where I’m parked, the full
hot and cold sun is stuck, alone,
in its slot. There’s no shade,
no sign of the time, memory’s
gauge. Noon? Past? Where’s my hat?
The moonroof is bent open.
I suck the air while I can, my lungs
let me. My phone remains un-
charged, while you, and you, and you,
whom I love
are alive, so far
as I know. No news
can reach me. Bliss. This beach
remains unmapped. Here
I am empty, here, where I’ve never been,
where I’ve always lived, where waves crest
mission statements, which scatter
and repeat, and repeat, each time insisting
they love what they do, they love who
they are, they know what they know.

Read more from Issue No. 31 or share on Twitter.