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.
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.