Monk I
Driving the I-90 I met a Monk.
Monk and I became friends of a material wealth.
One day Monk pricked a flower from between the highway cracks and told me to put it in water
before it lost its color.
So I looked for an ocean.
Instead, Monk and I spat into our palms
baptizing the daisy.
I buried myself on that overpass.
Used the earth like a rehab.
I wanted to sprout like that flower Monk picked.
I wanted to be a bud.
Monk says: Don’t want. You’ll wilt.
Monk II
I am free from the burden of comfort, I tell myself, rolling 104 on the freeway.
So free I let the silver guardrail flashing past me grow hands and feet. I watch her run on all
fours like a wounded girl, keeping pace with my car.
I am free from the burden of love, I tell myself. I have filled two zip-locks with my wet worries.
Keep them close to my chest, buttoned up in my coat, the hot sloshing liquid brings me peace; if
I do not let her spill.
I am free from the burden of focus, so I close my eyes when I drive. On straight roads there is no
need for sight. But just in case, I have filled every ditch with bouncy balls.
When I saw him on the interstate he wasn’t dressed like a monk.
Dressed more like a man.
But he called himself Monk, so that was his name.
Where are we going, Monk? He wasn’t sure.
And how long will it take?
As if he were not a passenger in my car.
I said: I prayed into this engine for salvation. Are you not my deliverance?
And Monk said: Don’t want. You’ll wilt.
Nichi Rae Jackson (pronounced Nee-chee)(she/her) is a student at The University of Arizona pursuing her B.A. in Creative Writing. This is her first publication.