She reminded me of a dream

I had when I was twenty-three

And the body—it was perfect, free

Of flaws and maladies; and the scars

And claws that grip you, which come later

Dressed like love; things unforeseen

That strangulate you, forcing tracks

To dry in mud.

Walk through time—its unjust constraints;

Leave behind the epic chase.

I see your hands unclasp from the wrong person’s

Grasp; I watch you cartwheel alone

Across the sand.

Final Ground

On hard Earth you lie flat, eyes drifting

at last, around creek and sparse camp-

ground while darkness descends.

This is where the road ends. You chose

desolation and tangerine-themed horizon.

This is your mirror, crystallized water;

mountains reflected as charcoal shadows

in reverse, on your back through moist vision

the scenery blurs and with body twisting

to glance beyond slits, the whitetail doe focuses

on her prance. This companion was your last

along with harsh rocks. Blue night casts

purple hue across the brook and fading flowers

of summer force your mouth parched

for juice. The dryness flashes your mind

back to violence, as nearby river’s gorge

demands a last look. Straining,

you think as you crane your neck forward:

I can see violet; I can smell orange.

Gillian Thomas is a graduate of New York City’s Hunter College, having received her degree in English and Theater. She currently writes from home, taking breaks to play as many board games as possible with her 10-year old son, Durbin. Thomas’ work has also been featured in Beltway Poetry Quarterly, Gargoyle, Ligeia Magazine, Pembroke Magazine, FreezeRay, Maryland Literary Review and several others. She lives with her husband, son and a barking Miniature Schnauzer in the suburbs of Washington, DC.