Poetry by Jessica Evans

BLACK BOXES

Flat on my belly,
pushing past dusty shoeboxes,
I searched for my clarinet,
long quit and kicked under the bed.
Snaking out, I just knew you had pawned it
for a fix.

Cycles of the moon and mine
are unnerved aside
thrown down between you and I,
brother.
The muddy drive,
the masses in dark cottons,
trudge up to see you is
paved with our imprinted disgust,
damages forever, embedded in our sneaker souls.

Through the attic dusk
I look down
at the black box
on my knees,
and I am rapt
with remorse.
I am afraid
to click open the black box,
almost certain
you will be lying there instead.