The White Hen Pantry’s Last Green Pepper

She takes the waxy mass of green from its cool wire rack.

Outside, she throws the sack into the parking lot
where it dances on the hot concrete.

She tosses her find into sunlight,
squeezes it with pulsing rhythm,

feels its life return,
warm and beating
in her hand.

In the kitchen she opens drawers,
gazes at bags
folded neatly into one another.

She slices it,
licks the rough inside
of one quarter
and begins.

This is a reprint of work originally published in Nit & Wit.

Marc Frazier has widely published poetry in journals including Spoon River Poetry Review, Another Chicago Magazine, The Good Men Project, F(r)iction, The Gay & Lesbian Review, Tampa Review, Permafrost, Plainsongs, and Poet Lore. He has had memoirs published in Gravel, The Good Men Project, decomP magazinE, Autre, and Cobalt Magazine, among others. Willingly, his third poetry book, was published in 2019. His website is

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