Crater Lake

By marcus scott williams

 

there’s like 30 miles of Volcanic Legacy Scenic Byway then another lil highway
til the lake. the pines fall off occasionally & the pre-dusklight accentuates the
gold in the dust & dirt. dead trees chalk line ones still standing. it’s so quiet iont
have words to describe it properly. Myrrh calls me out for projecting onto this lil
kid i said looked gay & i am proud of them for holding me accountable; they’re
right. we talk on the hike down about the violence that manifests w projecting,
& how like naturally you’ll notice a person is different than you & try to scan &
associate sure but like assuming & then forcing your assumptions on muhfuckas
is just like rude breh breh.       i’m eavesdropping on flies.       issa lil smoky from
the yearlong wildfires so we can’t see clear across the lake. i dip my legs in the
icy water. the water lapping is so fucking serene, get the fuck outta here. my
ghost-heart earring falls in prompting Myrrh to save it for me. they swim in &
release locks of their hair into the lake, a lil bit of them in every state is the plan.             
                 on the way up panting & shit we hear some kids talking. ‘i’m Argentinian,
not white.’ ‘dude, you’re white!’ calls down to his other friend screaming to the
group that his Argentinian friend is white. tall gangly lil pasty child. the
Argentinian kid acquiesces slightly. ‘yeah i mean but i’m not like, Missouri
white. i think i’m saying i’m not Caucasian.’ ‘dude, you’re WHITE!’ that’s that
violent projecting. that white male patriarchal philosophy that has no room for
learning. what he says is what is Law. eeem when others will show some patience
& give the white man a lil sumn, if he don’t get 100% it’s like intellectual defeat
which is like existential death. see, now look at me projecting, again. the
Argentinian kid says ‘i’m giving up on this conversation.’ we’re heartbroken for
him. still can’t see no stars.           iont want no smoke.

 

[Purchase Issue 19 here.] 

marcus scott williams is a writer and artist whose work is predicated on socioempathy, the creation of comfortable spaces, and radical vulnerability. He is the author of Sparse Black Whimsy: A Memoir. He has received residencies and fellowships from the Saltonstall Foundation, the Vermont Studio Center, Ragdale, and the Bronx Council on the Arts. He loves and appreciates you.

From the beginning, The Common has brought you transportive writing and exciting new voices. We are committed to supporting writers and maintaining free, unrestricted access to our website, but we can’t do it without you. Become an integral part of our global community of readers and writers by donating today. No amount is too small. Thank you!

Crater Lake

Related Posts

coffee with a spoon

If It Wasn’t for Heroin

AMIYA MORETTA
My Umatilla grandfather / who had one leg, lived down the road, / hobbled to her heroin loyally. / That’s how / my mom and dad, neighbors whose parents / were good friends and fellow addicts, / met as kids, played together / on Frieda Street, those mornings

At night my soul leaves 

KAREN CHASE
up it goes into the stars, for / sustenance. I open / my eyes and pray— / You have returned within me, my / soul with compassion. / Modah ani lefaneka melechai / chai vekayam shehehezarta // I get out of bed, / join the revolution. 

Image of a wooden horse

Trojan Horse

M. B. MCLATCHEY
 It was a gold-seal ruse. A double-/ dealing so sublime the gods ordained / it. Settled into their stadium seats, / they wagered on their favorites. Helen, / the imposter bride, circling and circling  / the gifted horse. / Her Central Casting / lines to the shadows inside.