— after the U.S. TV series, CSI Miami
If I go missing,
send Horatio Caine to find me.
His sunglasses stretch across the Glades,
shading an empathy we mostly believe.
I know he will fight to gather my DNA,
even trace it back to the 60s, when I wandered
through South Florida looking for love
in so many places. Do you suppose my bottle blonde hair
is still floating between the seats of a ‘65 Ford, tangling
in the rust, drifting out through the floorboards?
Somewhere, my yearbook picture will give small clues.
My ex-cop ex-husband will make it easy to trace,
maybe in a little newsreel footage at the courthouse,
which I have to say, looks nothing like I remember,
but I left before they built the monorail —
and I wonder if Horatio worked
the McDuffie Riots in 1980,
placed blood-rusted evidence
in tiny envelopes, analyzed the ash
that choked our lives?
If I go missing,
send my ex-husband to find me.
I think he is seeking redemption
and this task will give him focus.
He is best when helping someone
who is needy and down on their luck.
If you are strong, you are boring,
and he will seek another —
a stray cat kind of girl — with a dog
he can bring home so you can feed it
while you shelter your own cats,
terrified by its snarling.
As a frustrated detective,
tracking me down will be fun for him.
All those broken locks, those open windows —
he will investigate every one with stubborn
authority, searching for that one true thing
that defines me and my destination.
He will cry over all the old photos,
my wedding gown a froth
of memory, my son at my breast —
too tender. And then, find an excuse
for an all-night compromise,
commingled with suspect DNA,
those crime lab samples
mixed with my tears, my breaking heart.
Send my ex-husband.
He is exed, gone, a body memory,
but he says he still loves me,
and that if he wins the lottery —
he will pay what he owes.
— after the U.S. TV series, Veronica Mars
Blonde and smart,
I think she’d find me —
and wage a little class war
along the way. Equipped
with a Russian accent
when she needs it,
a telephoto lens and lots
of smart dialogue, she is the
the opposite of the dream
I have about going
back to high school,
and failing that last class —
late, and clueless again
after 40 years of
look easy. Her pranks
create the perfect payback,
but her love life is as baffling
as my high school skirmishes
with passion — all innuendo
and confusion, silences
that languish in hallways,
door jambs supporting
lovesick boys, moments of glee
and hours of unrelieved boredom.
Anticipation like a drug,
and then the perfect kiss,
the one to remember,
the one that may
not have happened.
CAROL LYNNE KNIGHT is the co-director of Anhinga Press, where she edits and designs books. She graduated from the University of Miami and Florida State University. Her book of poems, Quantum Entanglement (Apalachee Press) was released in 2010. Her poetry has appeared in Louisiana Literature, Tar River Review, Earth’s Daughters, The Ledge, Slipstream, Comstock Review, Redactions, So to Speak, and other literary publications. She has exhibited her drawings, pottery, sculpture and digital images throughout the eastern United States. In other lives, she has worked as an art teacher, potter, videographer, copy writer, and graphic designer. She lives in Tallahassee, Florida.