The Way Here
A man’s eyes led me from the Caribbean
to a bungalow.
Beside the stacked, starched shirts of his father, we tore
at one another as Crucian surf pounded the bay.
Another wooed me under New Mexican stars.
He was Spanish, fluid.
Candles broke darkness as we dined in the foothills.
The miraculous earth of Santuario
de Chimayo lay only a short walk away.
I should have prayed and wept, dropped my anxiety like
crutches lining the rough wall.
How did I stand amid so many shrines and not pray?
How do I love as much as I do?
After our travels, neither of us could lead the other
anywhere but to the slow road back to ourselves.
Life is not a love song.
That is why they are so common.
Complications shift to falling actions.
There is a beat to all movement of which I can’t be too
conscious—each breath, blink, wave.
I come to you unarmed.
I wear a second skin of fear.
Of whom you might be, of whom I am becoming.
We will leave no trace upon the battered shore.
THIS IS THE TITLE POEM FOR THE BOOK THE WAY HERE
THE WAY HERE
MARC J. FRAZIER